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The RISE of 
LEDGAR DUNSTAN 



The RISE of 
LEDGAR DUNSTAN 


BY 

ALFRED TRESIDDER SHEPPARD ^ 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK 1916 


Copyright, 1916, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



NOV 13 1916 


Printed in the United States of America 


©CU446383 ^ 


. To 

my sisters and brothers 
Mary Bedford Luce 
Ethel Smythe Painter 
John Tresidder Sheppard, M. A, 

Fellow of King*s College, Cambridge, and of 
the War Office 

Robert Louis Sheppard 

Captain A. S. C., Late of the Royal Society and the 
School of Tropical Medicine 


“The thing which is now stirring Europe is not the work of God, but the 
work of the devil. It is not a development of God’s purpose, it is a matur- 
ing of the sheer wrongness of man. What is happening must be due some- 
where, somehow — ^he was not attempting to judge where or how — to the 
pride, the high-handedness, the stubbornness of man’s temper in undoing 
and thwarting the handiwork of God.” — ^Archbishop of Canterbury, 
Westminster Abbey, August 2, 1914. 

“After this war, the devil will no longer be able to sham dead.” — Dean of 
St. Paul’s. 

“This war, which is a crucifying of Christianity, may be itself a great 
revelation of God.” — Sir W. Robertson Nicoll. 

“And my prayer goes up, “Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage 
glory, s 

Give us for all our life’s dear story, ^ 

Give us love, and give us peace!” — ^J ean Ingelow. 


THE RISE OF LEDGAR 
DUNSTAN 


BOOK I 

CHAPTER I 

M r. DUNSTAN was an excellent father who grafted 
on to the methods of ancient Sparta the more mod- 
ern disciplinary measures of a provincial Baptist. 
Ledgar had not been many years in the world before he dis- 
covered that, if not exactly a Eugenic baby, he was at least 
a little child of sin, who had to be drilled and drummed and 
squeezed and battered into the rigid contours of a hundred 
Puritanic ancestors. As he was reminded in and out of sea- 
son, he was a child of many blessings and many prayers. He 
was fully cognizant of the prayers; there was no doubt of 
these; prayers at morning and evening; on Sundays, prayers 
and services almost throughout the day; long graces at and 
after meals; prayers and admonitions in letters from distant 
relatives; private prayers to be performed by the bedside at 
night and getting-up time — until he hit on the happy expedient 
of gabbling these devotions fourteen times on Monday morn- 
ing, leaving his time and conscience free during the remainder 
of the week. About the blessings he was a little dubious. 
Ten pounds from a maternal great-aunt was his first indica- 
tion of heavenly favor, but it brought only oblique benefit to 
himself. “When I was married,” said Mrs. Dunstan often in 
confidential moments, “your Aunt Eliza promised me a ten- 

I 


2 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

pound note when each of you was born; and, thank heaven, 
I earned it regularly pretty nearly every year. Twenty pounds 
there was the first year, with you and Emmeline — and we 
bought the piano with you, second-hand.” Mrs. Dunstan was 
always great at bargain ; as a child Ledgar sometimes wondered 
whether she had picked up his little brothers and sisters (who 
generally appeared shortly before spring cleaning) second-hand. 
There must surely have been a clearance sale when he and 
Emmeline, his twin, were born. In moments of depression, 
by no means infrequent, Ledgar felt convinced that he must 
have been shop-soiled or slightly damaged, and so purchased 
at a great reduction; and the remark made by Mr. Cribb the 
veterinary — his father’s closest friend — at his first introduc- 
tion to the twins lent some color to this idea. “H’m, I should 
keep that one, Tom,” he advised gruffly, pointing to the sturdier 
Emmeline. Aunt Eliza’s benefactions had ended with Abina- 
dab, shortly before the opening of this story. A wealthy 
uncle named Abinadab has his disadvantages. 

It was unfortunate for Ledgar, perhaps, that his mother, 
coming of Cornish stock, brought to the stout, phlegmatic, 
Saxon Dunstans the strain of passionate, emotional, uncertain 
blood and temper of that race; and that he, her eldest child 
(if only by half a dozen minutes), inherited more than his full 
share. Large, dark, dreamy eyes were her physical legacy; 
temperamentally, he was shy, self-conscious, and introspective; 
a bundle of imaginings and nerves. It was normal in the 
Dunstan family — that wider family of which James’ and Mrs. 
Dunstan’s was only one of many long-vanished homes — for 
the boys and girls, right young Baptists, to take figuratively 
(and in due time, literally) to the water. But here was a 
strange, small bird in the nest; dubiously swan or goose; not 
duck, certainly. Mr. Dunstan discovered this gradually, and 
with growing uneasiness. To the very end it was a source 
of dazed bewilderment to him. The child was scarcely 
breeched before he began to ask perplexing questions. Not the 
sex questions which puzzle most intelligent children; those 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 3 

could be answered fairly easily. It was simple enough to say 
that the doctor provided the new babies; or that Solomon’s 
concubines were his lady friends. Mr. Dunstan himself had 
lady friends. There was Miss Higgs, the dressmaker, who 
went into hysterics at the sight of an uncaged canary — ^was 
always in hysterics, and was frequently being carried out 
of chapel in them; once indeed was carried out by a too 
energetic deacon when not really in hysterics at all, but only 
bending down to tie her shoe. There was Mrs. Popple, the 
baker’s wife, who was plump and talkative, and outrageously 
flirtatious. There was Miss Lamb, who was as bold as a lion 
in bearding the unbearded males of the congregation (and, 
like Rosalind, “as many as had beards that pleased her”) ; it 
was through her that Mr. Lovibond, the young new minister, 
was driven from the neighborhood. Two pairs of patchwork 
slippers in three months broke his heart. With half a dozen 
other ladies who came to Dorcas meetings Mr. Dunstan was 
on quite intimate terms. Ledgar himself had his concubines. 
Old Mrs. Boy, who gave him sweets after chapel every Sun- 
day, was one; Mrs. Lane (but “Mrs. Fanny” his mother 
alw’ays called her, explaining that it seemed shorter and more 
homely) another; she did the household charing, and was a 
great figure, especially at Christmas time — her neck was so long 
and red and scraggy that Ledgar watched her wring the tur- 
key’s neck in the fascinated expectation that at any moment 
the turkey might turn on her and wring her own. . . . The 
problems which puzzled Ledgar, and, through him, Mr. Dun- 
stan, were those of faith and conduct. 

“Pa, if God is so kind, why does He send people to hell?” 

“He doesn’t, my boy. If people will go there He cannot 
help them. He has provided a way of escape.’’ 

“Yes, but Mr. Hunter, when he was going out to China, 
took out his watch and told us every time it ticked a China- 
man went to hell.” 

“And so Mr. Hunter went out to try and save them. Quite 
right, my boy.” 


4 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

‘‘But there are such millions and millions of them.’* 

“If they accepted Christ ” 

“How about all the people who die without hearing of 
him?” 

Or again, 

“How can one person ever be three? How was it the 
world went wrong directly it was made? Who did Cain 
marry? If God is so strong, why did He lie in wait at an 
inn to kill Moses, and then run away from Moses’s wife?” 

Or once more, 

“Pa, why is it wrong to drink wine, if Jesus Christ did? 
Why do we keep Sunday more than Saturday, or any other 
day? Why — ^why ?” 

“Oh, hold your tongue. You ask far too many questions. 
It is plain enough; God says this is the way, walk ye in 
it; you should read your Bible and ask for guidance. I don’t 
like to see these atheistical leanings. If I had dared to ask my 
father such questions, do you know what he would have done?” 

Ledgar had no idea. Something terrible, he felt sure. Mr. 
Dunstan grand-pere was a very solemn-faced old gentleman 
in a stiff cravat, whose portrait, corpse-like even in life, hung 
over the drawing-room mantelpiece. “A handsome man, your 
grandfather,” Mr. Dunstan had once said, waving his hand 
before the smug, chop-whiskered features, with full convic- 
tion. 

“He tied me to the bed-post, with bread and water, for a 
day for saying I thought it unkind to make it rain on the 
Sunday School treat day. Why, when I was a little boy we 
were not allowed to put our feet on the hearthrug before 
the fire. And” — putting his thumbs into the armpits of his 
flowered waistcoat, his favorite attitude — “you see what it 
made of me. Never done me no harm — any harm, I mean. 
You can thank Heaven you are so fortunate. Now get on 
with your home-work, and leave these silly ideas alone.” 

Stackhouse, the pictures in whose great Bible made Charles 
Lamb’s nights so full of terror, would have been an ideal 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 5 

parent at this time. He did not shirk difficulties but faced 
them manfully; when the ingenious atheist, for example, asked 
how so many animals could have been stabled in the ark when 
so much room would have to be devoted to their provender, 
he was ready at once with the sly and delighted poser, ‘‘Was 
it not probable that on their first voyage most of them would 
be far too sea-sick to require much provender?’* Mr. Dunstan 
was no Stackhouse; everything was plain to him — the old ways, 
the old paths — the old ways, the old paths — he saw no diffi- 
culties, and had no ingenuity in confronting those that did 
arise. The minister at Ebenezer Chapel did make some at- 
tempt. His sermons to young people not infrequently turned 
from denunciations of Catholicism, the giddy dance, cards, 
drink, smoking, and theaters, to fiery onslaught, at once con- 
temptuous and indignant, on the imaginary arguments of imag- 
inary atheists. These were set up and bowled down exactly 
like nine-pins. But, thought Ledgar, only a very silly atheist 
would ask such questions, and only a very silly atheist be 
satisfied with such answers. 

He disliked the chapel, he disliked the crowded, noisy 
Sunday School and its sepulchral superintendent; he was sus- 
picious of all the inquisitive and impertinent people who were 
so anxious about the welfare of his soul, asking him — with 
hands fat and flabby, thin and bony, caressing or gripping 
after their kind his own — disconcerting questions about his 
inner state. Scalp-hunters, he thought them, anxious for a 
new trophy to add to their collection; and it became the one 
excitement and anxiety of his life to elude them. He was a 
proud boy; Mr. Binks the green-grocer, Mr. Mead the draper 
(who addressed such amusingly familiar prayers to the Al- 
mighty, telling Him so many things He must surely know 
already, and imploring Him at least on one occasion, to look 
with favor on us “little grasshoppers a-hopping and a-skipping 
about in Thy sight”), Mr. Mould the undertaker — why on 
earth he wanted to go to chapel Ledgar did not know, because 
it seemed somehow too absurd that a man who was always 


6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

burying other people should somehow die one day and be 
buried himself — all these good and worthy people he looked 
upon with carefully veiled contempt. There was a chiel 
among them taking notes; a child with keen humor already 
becoming embittered because constantly thwarted, continually 
checked, perpetually regarded with suspicion and mistrust. 
Finding no vent, he let this dangerous gift run riot internally 
to his own detriment. On the most portentously solemn occa- 
sions he was often convulsed with inner laughter, and in terror 
of discovery. And the Puritan circle of his youth gave him 
ample scope. At family prayers, for instance, when his father 
broke off the solemn reading to admonish one of his small 
congregation, “And the Lord said unto Moses — ^t^p pull- 
ing the cat’s tail, or you’ll go up to bed instantr^% And 
Moses said unto the Lord — I’ve had about enough of your 
nonsense, my boy,” Ledgar stuffed his handkerchief into his 
mouth to repress the almost uncontrollable giggling, so awful 
if it stood revealed. In chapel again, when Mrs. Simmons, 
who weighed fifteen stone, and nearly crushed little Mr. 
Perkins by falling into his arms from some rickety steps at 
the bazaar, joined in the hymn. 

The morning bright with rosy light 

Has waked me from my sleep. 

Father, I own Thy love alone 

Thy little one doth keep, 

piping out her smallness with enthusiasm, he was again hard 
put to it to restrain his laughter. And the saints who stood 
ever in the light! And the Tsidkenu, the Paraclete (obscure 
form of parachute, he thought), the other incomprehensible 
Mesopotamic words, sung with such unctuous emphasis that 
Ledgar was quite certain By-Jingo-if-we-do, included in a 
hymn, would have gone with equal vigor. Even the most sol- 
emn of all services, the Baptismal service, which, looked at by 
reverent eyes, might have held all the beauty of a first Com- 
munion in that Church whose services are always beautiful. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 7 

excited in him the same small demon of ridicule.- Mr. Mas- 
terman in his rubber overalls with the long feet, waiting at 
the water’s edge to receive and immerse the black young men 
and white young women, did look so much like an alligator 
waiting hungrily on the river bank; and the young men and 
women did look so limp and bedraggled as they were smug- 
gled, scattering water all along the aisle, to the vestry. 

He was too young to join the church at present, but he 
knew that before long he would be solemnly urged to give 
in his name for membership — and he looked forward to that 
day with inward quakings. How was he to get out of it? 
Why did people expect him to make himself look so ridiculous ? 
“I won’t let ’em duck me,” he muttered to himself, clenching 
his small fists. “I won’t go into the vestry with all those 
fellows and girls at the drapers and the pork-butchers, and 
be jabbered to about my soul, and say I’m sorry I’m such a 
wicked sinner, when I never asked to be born; and have 
everyone slobbering over me. I won’t — I wont!" 

At times the beauty of holiness, but a very materialized 
holiness, did make its appeal to him. It would perhaps be 
rather fine to take the chair at public meetings, in a white 
waistcoat with an immense gold chain, and head subscription 
lists, and be pointed out as the friend of donkeys and of orphans. 
There was a month during which he collected stealthily frag- 
ments of food, spare lumps of sugar, and saved halfpence, with 
the vague idea of an orphanage founded and named after him- 
self. But his interest in this was desultory and, in a sense, 
academic; he was dubious whether this or a career of con- 
spicuous crime — not petty crime, but crime on a gigantic scale, 
rivaling the careers of Jack Sheppard and Dick Turpin — 
did not hold out greater advantages. In the same way it 
seemed immaterial to him whether he chose to be Baptist, 
Anglican, Roman, even (the shuddering horror of it fasci- 
nated him) Atheist. Why should not religion be chosen for 
its color, like a tie; its fashion, like a suit of clothes? 

Not a good boy, though with frequent good impulses and 


8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

desires, he had those premature passions which often accom- 
pany a temperament like his. He committed many little sins 
of vision, thought, action; felt before each the warning, “Don’t 
do this” — after each the admonition, “You should not have 
acted so; it was wrong; tell your parents and do not sin 
again.” On tw^o or three occasions he made confession, and 
by his mother at least received absolution plenary and loving. 
But soon, as he grew older, he became too shamefaced or 
indifferent. He had small resisting or fighting power at this 
present stage. After each small committed sin there was a 
sinking-down sensation; a kind of hollow feeling; a sense of 
demolition calling for reconstruction. 

Minutes of intense ecstasy and exaltation, produced by any 
unexpected generosity or pleasure, or often by the sight of 
beauty in the world around him — like Anselm, he saw palaces 
and fairy castles in the sky, and in his walks hastened towards 
their glittering pinnacles and battlements — ^were succeeded by 
intense depression. Nights were often terrible to him. Fear- 
ful things happening in the world, horrible tragedies enacted 
in the very rooms below stairs, were visualized so actually that 
now and then, wrought to a tension at length unbearable, he 
shrieked out in terror for the friendly presence which could 
bring comfort and disillusion. He dreaded the dark, a fear 
which his father treated with contempt and ridicule. And how 
he feared Hell! 

Ledgar went to a small school where boys and girls were 
taught together by two maiden ladies, so aggressively spinster 
that such gentlemen flowers as sweet Williams and bachelor’s- 
buttons were excluded from their gardens. A male person, 
probably a brother, bobbed in and out of the background, 
Mantalini fashion, generally appearing at the annual party 
in a gorgeous flowered waistcoat (and, of course, other gar- 
ments). The Misses Binks gave Ledgar, when he was good, 
slabs of bread and butter sprinkled with brown sugar; when 
he was bad, they stood him on a form or in a corner. He 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 9 

got on well enough with them ; with the twenty or thirty little 
boys and girls who attended the school he was not so popular, 
though he had his half-dozen friends and intimates. With these 
children, when it was possible, he was despotic, insisting on 
first place in all games — very often if this were not to be 
obtained by force or by cajolery, he sulked and refused further 
play. A tiny close surrounding an ancient church near the 
school was their chief playground ; gratings showed dark 
glimpses of a crypt; there were shuddering traditions of a 
gruesome beast called the Zeal, which lurked, dragon-like, 
in those dim recesses. The text “The Zeal of Thine house 
hath eaten me up” started the legend. 

Into this school one day came a little maid with sun- 
bonnet on dark hair, very dark blue eyes, and the prettiest 
small mouth God ever made for kisses. As far as he was capa- 
ble of love, Ledgar loved her at first sight. “What is your 
name, little girl?” he asked. 

“What do you want to know that for, little boy?” she 
returned, with more pertness than he was accustomed to from 
new-comers. And then, relenting, “You may guess if you 
like. My first name rhymes with something bright, something 
fishy, something thin, something silly, and something noisy.” 
He puzzled out skinny first. Tinny, finny, skinny, ninny, 
dinny, Minnie, or Jinnie. Her nose puckered. 

“Winnie.” 

“The second is the name of a flower.” Here he had to 
give in. Even a place where soldiers lived, as the first syllable, 
did not help him. Hut, barracks, camp — but there wasn’t a 
flower beginning with camp or barracks. 

“Campion.” 

“Never heard of it.” 

“Winnie Campion.” 

A prettier name, he thought, than Mary Perkins. Each 
little boy at the school had his sweetheart. Ledgar selected 
a fresh one every month ; sometimes he had two. Mary Perkins 
was a fat little girl, whose chief attraction was that she could 


10 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

squeak exactly like a doll if you hit her in the proper place. 
But she was already in disgrace. At a party, a week or two 
before, she had startled and scandalized the assembled com- 
pany by blurting out suddenly, “Please may I go and lie 
down? Fve got such a pain in my belly.” 

For days afterwards the other children discussed the awful 
word with bated breath. She was ostracized, and spent her 
time in tearful and resentful Coventry, even Ledgar regard- 
ing her with disapproval. A good and well-meaning little girl, 
her only solace now was in Job and the Lamentations of Jere- 
miah. She defended herself warmly, after search, by declaring 
that it was in the Bible. The children caught up the excuse. 
“Mary Perkins says that her (wicked word) is in the Bible!” 
It tickled them. Little girls* abdomens in Holy Writ! 

No. Ledgar’s scepter was turned against her, and the new 
queen reigned. Winnie and he paddled together, raced on the 
sands, groped together under the pier for mussels, cockles, 
periwinkles; sometimes anemones in pools like opals in the 
sunset. Near the bathing place was an old boat, in which 
they had adventures more marvelous than those of Bucentaur 
or Argo or Golden Hind. For them, too, “the echoing oars of 
Argo startled an unknown sea.’* This patched and battered 
craft belonged to the bathing man; and the bathing man was 
Winnie’s grandfather, with whom she lived. He was not cer- 
tain that bathing men were quite respectable; but then they 
went to church, which was far more respectable than being 
Baptist. He was in two minds once to ask his father why 
he was not something respectable in his religion; but he 
refrained. 

These were the j oiliest hours in his life; hours to be re- 
membered long afterwards by that boy, who knew not then 
in any way his own heart, nor what it might some day suffer. 
Picture him at tea in the ancient cottage with lichened roof 
and rough stone walls facing the sea. A tiny garden, hemmed 
by bowlders of chalk, was filled with hollyhock, geranium, 
roses, wallflowers, or phlox, in their seasons. Wonderful de- 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan ii 

signs of anchors and ships were drawn in pebbles on the paths ; 
two figure-heads of old vessels leered at one another or at 
those entering to take their bathing tickets at the little win- 
dow. In the small parlor were woolen pictures of battles — 
ships not looking quite sea-worthy, but the smoke from the 
guns truly lifelike — models of craft in wood and shell; old 
prints dating back to Boney’s time, framed cuttings from yel- 
low news-sheets, a couple of fish and a dried sea-horse; great, 
pearly shells, which Mr. Campion held to their ears, so that 
deep in the convolutions they might hear, as in some mysteri- 
ous cave, the roar and murmur of seas that beat once in lash- 
ing storm or under forgotten sunshine, on shores of coral and 
of palm. Winnie’s grandfather was an old, old, very old man ; 
garrulous, though full of tales of dead smugglers, shot riding- 
officers, wreckers and run cargoes, ancient wars when he and 
the world were young. As a boy he served powder in one of 
Nelson’s frigates, and lost a foot. “Would ha’ been my leg 
as well, he, he,” he chuckled, “would ha’ been my leg, but our 
ole sky-pilot on board nipped in and saved me. Got into a hen 
crate when the firing began, he did ; but he got egsited like the 
rest of us, and bobbed his head through the boards to cheer the 
men on. ’Twas he pulled me down by the leg just as the 
round-shot come along. . . . Seed Boney once, a did; little 
plump feller, no bigger’n me. We had him aboard one of our 
ships; him and two or three other kings. No bigger’n me, he 
wasn’t. Wellington? What, the old Dook? Knowed him 
so well as I know you, Ledgar. Him and Mrs. Dook, Duchess, 
I should say; round little party her was, six score to the hun- 
dred, as the saying goes. Give me a slice of plum cake, her 
did; and the old Dook snatched it away and ate it hisself. 
First meal he had arter Waterloo. Oh, he was a snappy old 
man — but fight! Lard, you should ha’ seen how he could 
fight.” 

Mrs. Campion, twenty years younger than her husband, 
was only a little less loquacious. It was she, in that house, 
who wore the breeches; and old Campion’s main grievance 


12 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

was that, with her about, he could scarcely call his soul his 
own. He was happiest when she was away shopping or visit- 
ing; then they had unchecked narratives and great games to- 
gether. He watched her furtively from the corner of an eye 
while spinning his yams. Sometimes a story broke in a lame 
conclusion under the stony compulsion of her eye. Ledgar 
remembered the account of a fat woman at a country fair. 
“My word, what a soize her were, to be sure! I never seed 
such a ’ooman. Weighed twenty-seven stone, eighteen feet 
round the middle, and — one foot round the chest.” “Your 
grandmother dew worry me so,” he said plaintively on more 
than one occasion to the children. 

Mrs. Campion’s own stock story (greeted by her husband 
with guffawed incredulity) was about her rescue from an 
accident in the early days of railway traveling. A pair of 
striped stockings saved her. Half the carriages were blazing; 
her own was bursting into flame; and she found herself pinned 
down by wreckage, unable to move her arms to save herself. 
But one leg was free. With superhuman effort she waved it 
out of window; the striped leg was recognized by a friendly 
porter; and Mrs. Campion was saved. “Make her wear 
ornary black stockings now, like other females,” whispered 
Mr. Campion. He owned a gray parrot, a companionable 
bird, ancient as himself; its stock phrase, “Little grog for 
Billy.” When Campion and the bird chattered together the 
din was almost unendurable; once Ledgar entered to find Mrs. 
Campion busy with her housekeeping books, and to prevent 
confusion she had covered not only the cage with its drapery, 
but her husband with an old table-cloth. Head thus con- 
cealed, he kept silent until released ; it was the only way, and 
he submitted with a good grace. But with one of her sug- 
gestions he absolutely and flatly refused to comply. “What 
dew you think Mrs. Campion wanted me to do the other day?” 
he said once to Ledgar. “Wanted me to have dis here old bald 
head of mine treacled over to catch flies with while I took my 
arternoon nap. Did you ever hear tell of such a thing? Said 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 13 

I might as well be doing something useful. Oh, she dew 
bother me so.’^ 

But the old couple were united at least in their affection 
for Winnie, whose father, their only child, had been drowned 
at sea, and whose mother had died soon after. It was easy 
to see who the light of that small household was. Winnie 
repaid their affection with sundry small household services; 
and very often Ledgar helped her to wring out and dry, and 
hang on lines on the downs behind the cottage, towels and 
bathing costumes. It was when they held opposite sides of a 
large bathing towel and were folding it together, that he 
snatched his first kiss. 

On a certain June day catastrophic events gave a new direc- 
tion to Ledgar Dunstan’s life. The morning opened without 
special premonitions. At a quarter to eight his father called 
him gruffly; for twenty minutes, with his brothers and sisters, 
he was made to run round and round the little garden, Mr. 
Dunstan acting as a kind of circus master; a humiliating busi- 
ness perpetually resented. Then prayers. Then a passage of 
scripture to be learnt and recited. Then grace. Then break- 
fast, to the accompaniment of not a little fault-finding and 
nagging. Having thus done his duty to his family, Mr. Dun- 
stan set out for the solicitor’s office where he was employed. 
Ledgar, Emmeline, Charles, and Mary started with slates and 
satchels for school. Ledgar’s chief friend at this time was 
Jack Newport, a boy whose hobbies were animals and natural 
history; he was generally surrounded by an atmosphere of 
decayed carcasses and rotten eggs. In the secret recesses of 
his desk he had recently — quite unknown to the Misses Binks, 
who would have been horrified at the thought of a confinement 
on their premises — acted as accoucheur to a female guinea-pig; 
and one of the offspring was to become the property of Ledgar 
Dunstan. To be strictly accurate, Winnie Campion was joint 
owner — a shell box, her property, and a few coppers saved by 
Ledgar from a scanty allowance earned by boot-cleaning (fre- 


14 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

quently withdrawn for misbehavior) effected the purchase. 
It was a lusty little animal, properly tailless; Winnie named 
it Robert after a baby brother lost in infancy — disregarding 
loftily its sex. On this Saturday the guinea-pig was handed 
over. 

Ledgar was dubious whether his family would receive it 
with open arms. Its home was to be with the Campions; on 
second thoughts, he could not resist the temptation to take it 
with him for the week-end. Any new possession caused him 
ecstatic delight, though it was uncertain whether the little 
animal,^ after the first joys of ownership, might not have fared 
ill in his keeping. 

He entered the parlor of the cottage, and swung down his 
satchel. It was a small room, perhaps the size of that pic- 
tured by De Quincey — seventeen feet by twelve — in his tiny 
vignette of comfort. Geraniums, musk and fuchsias filled the 
window, a bay, looking out over a hillside colored like a 
patchwork quilt with fields of different crops; here, in their 
seasons, the dark green of potatoes and bright yellow of mus- 
tard; green or golden wheat; clover and flaming poppies; 
one field with fat sheep in it, like silk-worms on a mulberry 
leaf. . . . On a sideboard in a recess, stood a great family 
Bible and a Life of Livingstone; on either side of the gold-faced 
clock on the mantelshelf lay a recumbent camel made of ala- 
baster. An occasional-table, presented by the ladies of the 
congregation to Mr. and Mrs. Dunstan on their wedding, and 
only discovered afterwards to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing — 
if a table can by any stretch of simile be compared to such an 
animal — since, when opened, it revealed itself in its true colors 
as a table for playing cards — this occasional-table supported 
a plaster hand holding woolen flowers. . . . On the round 
dining-table stood already Saturday’s dinner, a composite meal 
made of the week’s remnants; and near the table Mr. Dunstan 
sat in a great armchair, with his handkerchief over his head 
to keep away the flies. He was snoring, but the fall of Led- 
gar’s satchel roused him. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 15 

Ledgar, with Robert in his pocket, made for the door, to 
place his pet in safety upstairs. “Where are you going now?” 
asked his father. 

“To wash my hands, pa.” 

“Didn’t you wash them before you left Miss Binks’s?” 

“Er — yes, pa, but ” 

“Take your place at table, then. And don’t say ‘er’ when 
you speak to me. When I was a boy I had to treat my father 
with some respect; I was expected to call him sir. Not that 
I want you to. All ready? ‘For what we are about to receive, 
and for all the other gracious bounties of Thy hand ’ ” 

Long grace for little meat, thought Ledgar. He hated Sat- 
urday’s hotch-potch; the sea air made him ravenous. Would 
it be possible to smuggle some food down to the guinea-pig? 
His fingers groped in his pocket; he felt the little warm furred 
body. 

And — it squeaked. 

“Emmeline, please behave yourself at table,” said mamma, 
busy with the carving. “That is not at all a ladylike noise.” 
Emmeline protested indignantly. It was Ledgar. 

“I — I didn’t,” said Ledgar, flushing guiltily. 

“Well, don’t do it again.” 

“No, pa.” 

Squeak. 

Perhaps the guinea-pig had some sense of humor. Perhaps 
it resented Ledgar’s pocket, and took that form of protest 
against cramped quarters. Perhaps it wondered whether sus- 
picion might possibly be diverted next to Abinadab. 

However that may be, Ledgar’s repudiations were punctu- 
ated by very decided, unmistakable counter-demonstrations, 
seeming to contradict him flatly. Squeak, squeak, squeak. The 
louder and more indignant his protests, the noisier and more 
insistent the squeaks. “Have you got a cricket in your pocket, 
Ledgar?” asked Emmeline unkindly. He wished he had let 
her into his confidence. Charles suggested that he had swal- 
lowed a musical-box like the man in Mark Twain; a musical- 


i6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

box not working satisfactorily. Mrs. Dunstan’s mind turned 
anxiously to emetics. What did the family doctor prescribe 
for musical-boxes in the stomach? 

“Come here, sir.’* 

Ledgar rose sulkily and faced his father, who looked him 
over sternly. 

“Turn out your pockets.” 

From the right-hand coat pocket, a French halfpenny, some 
string, a lead pencil, indiarubber, a boys’ paper, monkey-nuts, 
several defaced foreign stamps. From the right trousers pocket, 
a knife, a slate pencil, a box of Pharaoh’s serpents, a nickel 
coin. From the left trousers pocket, three dusty jujubes, a 
sucked and broken peppermint, hundreds and thousands — cov- 
ering the carpet with tiny fragments of color — the sticky 
crumbled remnants of a jumble. This seemed to be his larder. 

“The other coat pocket, sir.” 

A handkerchief (squeak), an almost hairless toothbrush 
showing signs of toffee manufacture (vigorous squeaks), a top 
(fearful squeaking; the top was spiked). 

“Come on ; I don’t mean to wait here all day. Empty your 
pocket.” 

Very slowly, the guinea-pig. Squeaks now from mamma, 
Emmeline, the other small sisters. 

“Oh, do hold it up by its tail, pa.” 

“And what do you mean, sir, by bringing this — thing — 
home without permission? You know I don’t allow you to 
keep animals?” 

Ledgar murmured something about half belonging to 
Winnie. 

“Charles, go and fill the pail in the sink.” 

What was going to happen? Ledgar flushed and turned 
white. “Oh, don’t do that, pa. Oh, pa.” Ledgar loved the 
guinea-pig already like a child. Its jeopardy increased his 
affection. Oh, Robert, oh, mon — guinea-pig! 

There was Mr. Dunstan, waiting, inexorable; Clotho with 
the distaff, Lachesis with the spindle, Atropos with the shears — 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 17 

the Parcae stood personified. For the first time, in his father 
Ledgar had a vision of Force, icily, unintelligently relentless; 
nature red in tooth and claw. A bloody man. ... To wheed- 
ling succeeded defiance. 

“You can’t drown it. You darent! Half belongs to Win- 
nie Campion.’* 

“Indeed!” Mr. Dunstan was coldly humorous; a phase 
entirely foreign to his character. “Then pray which half am 
I to drown ? The tail half, or the other ? Charles, is the water 
ready ?” 

Ledgar could hear the lap-lap of the water as it ran into the 
pail, and brimmed over. Mr. Dunstan went towards the scul- 
lery. The boy made one last desperate appeal. “Pa, dont!* 
He plugged his ears with his fingers to shut out the terrified, 
pitiful squeaks. When Mr. Dunstan came back, and flung 
the limp body out over framed musk and geraniums into the 
garden, he found his son ashen. Ledgar’s whole body seethed 
with wrath, more terrible because impotent. 

*"Damn you, you — devil!” he hissed. 

The words, picked up easily enough from fishermen and 
laborers, were out before he knew what he was saying. He 
only knew that pride, affection, intense attachment to his own 
property and own money because they were his own — all that 
to him represented himself — had come against and recoiled 
bruised and bleeding from a dead stone wall of the pitiless, 
the unsympathetic, the cruel. He hated his father. 

“Oh, Ledgar!” cried Mrs. Dunstan in horror. 

Mr. Dunstan looked at him for a moment or two without 
speaking. “Charles,” he said at last, “give me the cane.” 

“Yes, give him the cane,” shrieked Ledgar. “Give him the 
cane, Charles.” He mimicked his father’s voice. He was 
dancing with rage. “You deserve it. You killed my guinea- 
pig. You drowned our guinea-pig. It wasn’t yours, and you 
killed it. You dare to hit me. I’ll — I’ll kill you if you do.” 

If looks and consuming hatred could have killed, there 
would have been a vacant place next Sunday in a certain pew 


i8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

at Ebenezer. As his father advanced, brandishing the weapon, 
the boy snatched from the table a vase of cut glass, holding 
summer flowers. “Stand back, pa, or I’ll throw it — I will. 
You shan’t touch me.” 

His warning was of no effect; this natural force trying to 
crush him advanced relentlessly as a planet keeping its orbit, 
in whose track all nebular opposition falls in scintillating dust. 
The vase flew from Ledgar’s hand. Mr. Dunstan ducked in 
time; a flash of vision showed little Abinadab on the floor, his 
face suddenly diffused with blood. Ledgar gasped with hor- 
ror; a second later, his collar was in an iron grip, and he was 
writhing under blow after blow. Breath all out of him, he was 
propelled up the stairs and flung into his room. 

“You can stay here until you’re in a better frame of mind. 
What’s that book?” The paper cover showed a wild night 
scene — highwaymen and waylaid coach. Mr. Dunstan tore 
the book to shreds. “I’m not going to leave that trash for you 
to read. Where’s your Bible?” As it was not in evidence, 
his father went into Emmeline’s room, and brought out a vol- 
ume with brass clasps and binding. “You can read this if you 
want anything to read.” 

“I — I don’t want anything to read,” blubbered Ledgar, and 
snatching viciously at the book flung it across the room. “I 
hate you. I hate the Bible, and God, and all the rest of that 
tommy-rot. You’re jolly pleasant with Mr. Masterman and 
the deacons, and polite to the ladies and all that; it’s a pity 
they don’t know what you’re like at home, nagging and bully- 
ing everyone. You ain’t quite so polite to ma as you are to 
Mrs. Masterman and Mrs. Popple, are you?” 

The door closed. Ledgar flung himself on the bed, which 
shook with his sobbing. He was furious still; but by and by 
the exaltation of rage — such as had remained with him — gave 
way to intense misery, self-pity blotting out all else. There 
was subconscious anxiety about his little brother, when his 
thoughts turned in that direction ; if he had killed him ! 

Oh, why had he been born? 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 19 

The blue summer evening darkened; a bat tapped in its 
passage against the cottage window. Already earth-hued 
laborers were returning from the multi-colored fields of 
their labors; he saw in twilight the glimmer of matches, and 
faces red in the glow. Very soon there would be lights in 
windows of farms and cottages. Through misty eyes, the boy, 
now that his first passion had worn itself out, watched and 
waited. 

Then he began to collect some clothes and a few treasures. 


CHAPTER II 


W ITHIN a foot or so of the window a drain-pipe ran 
to a rain-water butt standing on the red tiles of the 
garden. Ledgar had often made an exit in this way. 
He listened now for sounds below. Abinadab’s shrieks had 
long subsided. The clatter of plates and cups announced that 
the evening meal was being prepared. Soon parents and elder 
children would be sitting at the meal; grace be said. After 
supper, Bible reading and the evening prayer. A wave of in- 
effable sadness swept over him. Would they miss him much? 
Would even his father be sorry? He had seen men once 
dredging the near sea after a wreck, and a body was brought 
ashore. It lay in a boat, under tarpaulin ; the stiff feet, which 
looked as if they were made of chalk, stuck out uncovered. 
Now and then fisher folk came up, drew back the tarpaulin, 
and gazed silently at the still face. He pictured everything. 
The anxious search, the discovery (he glanced down at his own 
feet, shod in stout boots; would they, too, naked, look like 
chalk?), his parents weeping around his small coffin, with its 
frilled trimmings. Here an incongruous thought of wedding 
cake flashed across his mind. He supposed there would be an 
inquest; touching references at the chapel, and perhaps the 
hymn: 

Time, like an ever-rolling stream. 

Bears all its sons away, 

which was always sung when a member of the congregation 
died. And flowers at the funeral. And black gloves and free 
hat-bands at the funeral. And uncles and aunts and cousins 
at the funeral, praising him with bated breath, talking in re- 
proachful whispers about his father, shunned, isolated, in dis- 
grace, awfully sorry and remorseful. 


20 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 21 

( Selah ) 

The door opened a score of inches, and water and a chunk 
of bread were thrust in. He was desperately hungry now, and 
ate the bread ravenously. His parents generally sat up for an 
hour or two after the children had gone to bed. Mr. Dunstan 
did not smoke; he had not a single redeeming vice. Mark- 
heim asked the old curiosity dealer, before he stabbed him on 
that Christmas night, if he remembered doing one kind, un- 
selfish action to any human being. It is quite possible that a 
similar but inverted question may be put to the Recording 
Angel on Judgment Day about the Mr. Dunstans of this 
world. “Had he a single redeeming vice?” Night after night 
the two sat in moody or gloomy silence, broken only, when 
Mrs. Dunstan made a furtive attempt at conversation, by a 
contemptuous or irritated rejoinder. Once or twice Ledgar 
had sat up with them: he knew. But in their earlier years of 
marriage there had been nights when it was not like this. 

He pictured them now. His father would have the evening 
paper open, but as probably as not would not be reading it. 
His mother, sewing. She was always sewing. By-and-by 
their footsteps sounded on the stairs. Lying awake at night, 
he had often thought: “Some day I shall not hear their foot- 
steps any more on the stairs. They go up and down now; 
some day they will go up and down no more for ever.” Oh, 
a cruel world ; a terrible, terrible world. 

He was sorry about his mother; he would have liked to kiss 
her good-bye. Perhaps if she came in now for the good-night 
kiss he would fling his arms round her neck, and forgive them 
all. He wished she would. It looked horribly lonely out of 
doors. 

They passed his door, and anger flamed out again. Very 
well then ! On their own heads must lie the tragedy. 

He waited half an hour, then let down his bundle, and 
slipped to the rim of the butt. Violet darkness covered the 
patchwork fields, so bright and warm by day. Their cottage 
lay in a row of cottages marking the outskirts of the hamlet. 


22 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Through a maze of tiny streets occupied mainly by fisherfolk — 
in one of them stood Ebenezer Chapel, drab and cold, all its 
windows blind eyes which yet seemed to see the runaway — he 
came into Montacute Street. The shops and houses were 
asleep. Perhaps tomorrow some of the sleeping people in them 
would not wake up. Some day, not one of them would wake 
up. Not Mr. Mould, the undertaker, who earned his living 
by burying people who were dead. Not Dr. Kindle, who cured 
people and saved them from death. Incredible! How sad it 
all was — and how terrible. 

He came to the sea, and to the door of Winnie’s cottage. 
She, too, must be asleep. He wished he could see her again. 
He wished they could face this awful thing together; go hand- 
in-hand out, until the water rose to their breasts — to their lips 
— over their heads; as it rose over the Scottish martyrs, in 
Foxe’s book. But he doubted very much whether Winnie 
would have consented. “It’s silly,” she would have said. 
“Go home and go to bed, Ledgar.” No one understood him; 
no one had feelings, thoughts, ideas like his. He thought he 
must be a genius. He did not quite know what a genius meant ; 
someone very clever, someone not like other people. Shake- 
speare was a genius ; so was Milton. Did Shakespeare ever trv 
to drown himself? 

Chatterton poisoned himself, and he was a genius, and a boy, 
too, not much older than himself. 

High above him, immeasurably high, rose the night sky, 
encrusted with stars. Remote, inaccessible, spun those count- 
less worlds. 

Bubble planets tossing 

In the dead black sea of night. 

He stood beneath them on the shingle, a tiny, lonely figure — 
inexpressibly little under the vast arch of the firmament. A 
few small boats lay canted over on the foreshore, and out at 
sea were twinkling lights of ships. At intervals from the light- 
house two miles along the shore three white flashes circled over 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 23 

the dark, heaving waters, and died out. He waited for a 
receding wave, and stepped into the water. Ugh! It was cold. 
He had never known the sea could be so cold. How his boots 
dragged like lead, like divers’ boots, as the water filled them. 
His trousers lashed themselves clammily round his legs. Waist 
high the water was now; his teeth chattered. A wave came, 
he almost lost his balance. On again — breast high now. He 
had a vague impression that the Scottish martyrs sang as the 
w^ater rose. He couldn’t. Their teeth, surely, never chattered 
like his. Solway Firth could never have been so cold. It was 
much worse, drowning in such cold water. And then, when 
the water had almost reached his neck, panic seized him. Had 
he ever really meant to drown himself ? He never knew. But 
a wave was coming — a colossal wave, mountains high; and he 
turned tail. 

A man went out once to hang himself. They found him 
with the rope around his waist. “But why not round your 
neck?” they asked him. “I did try, but I found I could not 
breathe.” 

The wave, callous, blind, heedless of the bundle of quivering 
nerves and fright and emotion in its path, swept on, passed 
over him, rolled him over and under. With a supreme effort 
he regained his footing when it had passed. Choking, breath- 
less, he struggled towards the friendly shore. He ducked to 
meet the wave on its passage back to the great deep. Again 
he clutched with bleeding fingers at shingle and at weed. 

He stood waist high again at last, battling for the shore; he 
reached it with the foam-flecked jaws of another monster at 
his very heels. He lay for some minutes, spent, gasping for 
breath, almost lifeless. Then, for the first time in his life, 
Ledgar Dunstan sincerely thanked God. 

On the beach he had left his few treasures and his best 
clothes, spread out for the eyes of seekers. It had not occurred 
to him that his others might be missed. One cannot, in hours of 
supreme tragedy, think of everything. But circumstance, or 


24 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

fate, was a better hand at stage management than he. He 
stripped off his dripping clothes and left them on the beach. 

“Ugh, I didn’t think it was so awful I” he said to himself, 
shuddering as he turned towards open country. 

His plans were vague. London, he thought; but the gold- 
paved city seemed strangely drab and unseductive. He was 
blue with cold. If he had saved the bread instead of gobbling 
it up like a pig! How luscious seemed Saturday’s hotch-potch 
which he had shared with his family — turning up his nose — a 
million billion years ago. How seductive his bed, the drowsy 
falling into slumber, the tingling delight of those last few min- 
utes before his father hauled him out into inexorable day. 
Thinking of these delights, longing for them, he still trudged 
mulishly on. The boys at school had given him this nickname, 
“mule” ; “muley-cow” sometimes, from a nigger song about some 
races, “Old Muley Cow ran ober de track ; do da, do da, dey.” 

Well, it should be London; he knew the way to the road 
which ran direct to the great city. Something would turn up. 
Brisk walking put some warmth into his veins. On and on 
he walked; footsore and miserable, with mulish, stupid ob- 
stinacy taking the place of resolution. As he had started in 
life, so now, without chart or goal or aim; a kind of hopeless 
slinging away of himself. “I’m no good, no use to anyone; I 
don’t matter.” 

It began to rain. A few drops at first, but large drops; 
ominous of approaching storm. Faster, thicker; a blinding 
flash of lightning broke the sky, bringing gaunt trees and empty 
country into incandescent clarity. Under crashing thunder the 
very world seemed to stagger. He was terrified of lightning. 
“O God, O God!” he moaned. No shelter was in sight. 
Once more, he stood alone, infinitesimally small, confronting 
blind forces ; fighting a tenebrous, fulminating universe. 

The rain came down in sheets now, lashing his face, dis- 
puting every yard of the road. 

He staggered on for perhaps a mile. “It’s no good,” he 
gasped at last, “I can’t go on.” It was dangerous to shelter 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 25 

under trees; he wondered whether a hedge would be danger- 
ous. No help for it; and he crept into partial cover. He 
wished he were dead. He thought he was dying. So they 
would find him here, like this. Not so fine as lying drowned 
and chalk-white upon the seashore ? Oh, he couldn’t help that. 
He couldn’t think about it. He could hardly think at all now. 
His brain seemed numb, save for terror. A speck of lost hu- 
manity, he lay quivering, as the skies were torn to shreds, and 
that terrible reverberating thunder rocked the world. . . . 
Something moved in the hedge. Something cumbrous, hoofed, 
darker than the surrounding night. He strained his ears to 
listen. Yes — and it was drawing near him. Some awful 
beast, perhaps from that underworld about which Mr. Master- 
man preached so often; a fearsome being such as John saw in 
vision at Patmos. He remembered nearly all; objects of 
ridicule by day, but at night, often of terror. The beasts full 
of eyes; the beasts like lions and calves and flying eagles; the 
dragons with crowns and horns, casting floods out of their 
mouths, drawing the stars of heaven with their tails (when the 
Campions’ dog, Jack, came whining into their cottage with two 
tin cans tied to his tail, Ledgar compared him to this dragon; 
he would not do so now — if spared, he would be most respectful 
even to the most horrible creature in the Revelation), and, 
worst of all, the monstrous locusts with breastplates, women’s 
hair, lion’s teeth, tails of scorpions ... It was only a donkey, 
caught like him in the storm. 

He laid his hand on its wet, soft coat; and felt the warmth 
of company. There seemed a strange glow of renewed confi- 
dence that, most dejected, most obstinate, perhaps most stupid 
of all created beings, it yet bore as a panache, a sign, an honor, 
not borne by others — the cross. One of its kind carried a 
kingly figure once to His crowning; and palms waved, and 
garments were flung before its hoofs, and in its long, attentive 
ears sounded the Hosannas. 

Child and donkey — ^humblest of the animal creation — • 
crouched alone against the elemental fury. 


26 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

For a time the edge was taken off his terror, but Ledgar 
closed his eyes, letting down those tiny blinds too thin and 
frail now for protection ; pressed a thumb to the tragus of each 
ear. Then suddenly, as dazzling light penetrated the lids, he 
shrieked. It had come! The blind lightning, searching field 
and copse for its prey, had laid its blasting, paralyzing touch 
on him at last. No hope now. This was his end. They would 
find him by day, as he had heard that cattle were sometimes 
found; charred, scorched with the photographic image of the 
hedge . . . Emmeline did poker-work. It was like that. 
Poker-work on his own body; branches, twigs, leaves, marked 
in blurred brown on living flesh. He thought he could smell 
the burning. Memories of his past life did not crowd upon 
him ; but with the speed of the lightning, these thoughts flashed 
through his mind. . . . Because, when his eyes opened they 
opened not on sheet or fork or chain in the night sky — not on 
some fiery gash or gap behind which might lie the terrors and 
splendors of God — but on a great Eye of Flame gazing di- 
rectly into his; menacing, as if arrested like the fangs of a 
snake, trembling above the fascinated victim, before the fatal 
blow is struck. And when the blow did fall, he knew this at 
least — he must be sightless. Already his eyes seemed seared and 
dry in their sockets. His shriek rent the night air; then the 
muscles of his throat seemed to tighten. He could utter no 
sound. . . , 

“Why,, Jarge, iPs nobbut a bit of a boy out here this awfu’ 
night,” a voice said in his ears. A friendly voice ; not the voice 
of Jehovah thundering from His judgment seat. The great 
light moved aside, casting a circle that included his wet, bedrag- 
gled clothes, and the dripping hedge. It was only a lantern, 
then. Ledgar blinked, and rubbed his eyes. 

“And here’s the old moke, sure ’nuff. What’s your name, 
sonny ?” 

“Best get ’em both to the cart, Tom. Come along, boy. 
You can walk, can’t ’ee? My, there ain’t many dry patches 
on ’ee — and likewise how you smell. Must a’ been lying in some 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 27 

muck under thiccy hedge. Up with un, Tom. Hitch the moke 
on behind. Here, have a drop of this first, though.” 

Ledgar had not heard the sound of wheels, although the 
cart stood only a dozen yards or so from the hedge. He was 
wedged on a plank seat between the two men. It was rather 
like Saul going out to seek his father’s asses. They had been 
looking for the donkey, and had found — him. 

Limp and exhausted as he was, his spirits rose. The brandy 
sent fire coursing through his veins. Afraid of lightning? 
Not he, when the men asked him. They were not afraid, and 
he caught the infection of their courage. He was not to lie 
dead and scarred under the hedge; he was going to have a 
wonderful adventure. ... By and by a flash showed two 
great, stone pillars with lions upon them, holding something 
in their mouths. They drove rapidly through, and along a 
drive bordered by trees. A park, evidently. The rain lashed 
their faces; it was wildly exciting; the cart swayed from side 
to side, bumped over stones, seemed now and then on the verge 
of upset. 

They came at last to the doors of a great house. 

It was gabled, covered in parts with ivy; lathed and breast- 
summered, and with lozenged windows. Elizabethan, perhaps. 
Certainly an ancient house. They drove round to the back, 
clattering over a cobbled yard, and horse and donkey were 
stabled. Then Ledgar was taken to an enormous kitchen, 
where in spite of summer a great log fire blazed. From oak 
beams rusty-looking hams depended; on the walls were foxes’ 
masks and pads, old weapons, shelves of china, earthenware, and 
shining vessels. Evidently the servants had gone to bed; the 
remnants of a meal were on the table. One old man, yawning 
and ill-tempered, was waiting up to receive them. Cosy quar- 
ters, thought Ledgar; not much here to grumble at. The man 
had kicked off his boots; he had been lying by the fire, with a 
blanket round him; pipe in mouth, and glass of something hot 
near at hand. 

'‘Got the ass, then?” he said, looking pointedly at Ledgar. 


28 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

He showed not the least surprise at the advent. “Two of ’em, 
simly; s’pose t’others in the stable. Where did ye pick him up?” 

In the meantime evidently word had been carried to the 
superior beings in the house, for a lady appeared, verging on 
middle age, with her hair in crackers, and clad in a faded satin 
dressing-robe. 

Ledgar, imagining her to be the owner of the mansion, as- 
sumed his most genteel air. 

“Oh, so you’re the little boy?” 

“Yes, please, ma’am.” 

“Well, you must talk to me. Say something. Say — let me 
think. ‘I am sorry to trespass at so late an hour of the night 
upon your hospitality, but unavoidable circumstances have 
placed me in this unfortunate predicament.’ Go on.” 

Ledgar stared at her in blank amazement. 

“Do you hear, boy? She’ll ask him what she wants to 
know. Just say that. Go on. ‘I am sorry to trespass’ . . .” 

Ledgar repeated the words. “H’m, not bad — not bad. ‘Pre- 
dicament’ just a leetle uncertain. Oh, a gentleman, undoubt- 
edly a little gentleman. That’s what they said he spoke like; 
and she was particularly anxious to know. Oh, and Hossack, 
if he’s wet — is he wet?” 

“Like a drownded rat, miss.” 

“How nasty! You should say like a — ^well, it doesn’t mat- 
ter. He’s very wet. Aren’t you very wet, boy? She says 
you’re to take him to the housekeeper’s room and give him a 
suit of Master Gordon’s clothes.” 

“Very well, miss.” 

“And give him a cup of tea. Oh, and he’s to come to the 
drawing-room afterwards. She wants to see him before she 
goes to bed.” 

Before the embers of a fire — they evidently believed in fires 
— he changed into clothes only a shade too large for him ; and 
then, coming down again, found a brown pot of not only the 
hottest but most delicious tea he had ever tasted; and a huge 
chunk of pigeon pic, followed by raspberry tart. “Ready?” 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 29 

said the old man, who seemed to grow grumpier with each 
mouthful. “My word, you’ve a twist on you — this time o’ 
night above all things. Couldn’t have eaten ’em better myself. 
Come along now; and if you drop your haitches, Gawd help 
you — ’cos I can’t!” 

With not a little trepidation, Ledgar followed him through 
a baize door, up some stairs, and across an enormous hall with 
a fireplace, portraits of two old gentlemen in ruffs and breast- 
plates, a knight in armor, a blunderbuss and some halberds, 
antlers, and an extraordinary musical instrument, neither organ 
nor piano, but with all sorts and shapes and sizes of brass 
fittings in its inside. Ledgar had never seen anything like it, 
not having been to London. “Now,” said his escort, “she don’t 
want me, but you go through that glass door, and straight 
across the little room into the big room. Open the glass door 
first I mean, of course; there’ll be a devil of a smash if you 
don’t. ’Spect you’ve got sense enough for that.” 

“Thank you very much. Good night, sir.” A little diffi- 
dent about the sir, but it was as well to make a good impres- 
sion. The old man grunted. “Don’t you let anyone catch you 
calling me sir, or Gawd help you.” 

This was a little terrifying. In some trepidation he fol- 
lowed the directions, and found himself in a small room ele- 
gantly furnished, with water-colors on some light background. 
He opened a gold and white door, and, circling a screen cov- 
ered with armorial bearing, entered the most magnificent room 
in which he had ever set foot. What an adventure! It was a 
palace, not a house. The room was dimly lighted ; the candles 
in enormous crystal candelabra were unlit; but in an alcove 
near a great marble fireplace — ^where, of course, logs were 
blazing — half a dozen candles, set in old silver holders on a 
small mahogany table, gave the only illumination other than 
the glow of the fire. Ledgar just had time to see that the room 
was paneled, and that on the walls hung many pictures. Then 
a gruff voice, like a man’s, ordered him to advance. 

He was considering whether it was the correct thing to 


30 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

make a courtly bow — such as Perkins the butcher’s son gave 
every Christmas before the admiring eyes of guests — ^when the 
polished floor settled the question for him, by shooting him 
forward, and depositing him almost in the lap of his hostess. 
An inauspicious beginning. Covered with blushes, he stam- 
mered out lame apologies, which were fortunately gracefully 
received. Indeed, the old lady at the table seemed not a little 
amused. 

She was seated on a chair with curly gilt legs, which was 
drawn up before the mahogany table. In the candle light 
cards were spread out; a dull amusement, thought Ledgar, 
to sit up so late in order to play cards with oneself. Her feet, 
cased in red slippers, rested on a hassock which was itself on a 
fox-skin rug. She was dressed in heliotrope, either silk or 
satin, and on her arm he noticed a bracelet of large green stones, 
and another which held a miniature, gold-edged, of some gen- 
tleman in powdered hair and bottle-green coat. Her face was 
fine; must, indeed, once have been very handsome; and the eyes 
were still very bright. But Ledgar noticed one feature with 
amazement. 

She had a yellow nose. 

A fine, arched, aristocratic nose. But yellow. Not simply 
the faded hue of skin turned to parchment by age. Bright, 
vivid, unmistakable yellow. 

“Oh, here you are, boy. So you’re the young gentleman 
who’s taken us by storm this wild night. Stand here in the 
candle light, and let me see you. H’m. You’ve seen Hig- 
gins?” 

“The man who gave me supper, ma’am?” 

“No, no. Old Higgins; female in crackers like a November 
guy. What did she say to you ? Told you to repeat some rig- 
marole, I’ve no doubt. That’s Higgins. How did she test 
you? What did she make you say, I mean? Prunes and 
prisms? I got her to tackle the parson once. Thought he’d 
been lifting his elbow just a trifle too much. She worked him 
round to ‘Biblical criticism.’ He got the ‘Biblical’ all right, 


The Rise of hedgar Dunstan 31 

but ‘criticism* — no, he couldn’t. Well, and now what have 
you to say for yourself? Don’t stare at my nose.” 

Ledgar apologized. But he really couldn’t help it. Through- 
out their conversation it drew his eyes like a magnet. 

“It’s only metal polish,” she went on. “Now you have a 
very good nose.” She turned him round by the shoulders. 
“Can you play cards?” A female card-sharper, perhaps. He 
had heard of them. “Only snap, ma’am.” 

“Well, we’ll play snap with the picture cards. You’re like 
the curate in the story; ever heard it? They wanted a fourth 
hand at -whist, and asked him if he could play cards; he said 
he could play very well. And when two' Jacks turned up he 
called ‘Snap’ and collared ’em. . . . We may as well do some- 
thing while we’re talking. Now tell me all about yourself.” 

When he had finished, “Well, you can’t go home tonight; 
that’s certain. I’ll drive you over tomorrow morning if it’s 
fine. It’ll be interesting to see what your father has to say to 
you. There, put the cards down. I expect you won’t be sorry 
for bed.” Indeed, he was suppressing yawns with difficulty. 
“Do you think it’s funny for an old lady to play cards by her- 
self at this hour? Eh, boy? But then you see I get up very 
late. Have you heard of Charles Lamb ? Good boy. What 
did he write?” 

“ ‘Essays of Elia,’ ma’am.” 

“Good boy. Now you don’t pick up a boy under a hedge 
every night who can say off-hand what Lamb wrote. Well, 
when Charles Lamb was called over the coals fqr getting late 
to his office, he said that he always made up for it by going 
away early. . . . Can you see any people in this room?” 

“People, ma’am?” 

“People, boy. For goodness’ sake leave my nose alone. It’s 
too distinguished to be stared at so rudely; it came over before 
the Conqueror. I’ll tell you some time, perhaps, why it’s yel- 
low; not now. I’m too s-sleepy.” She yawned. “Oh, I was 
talking about the people in the room. Can you see any?” 

“No, ma’am, only you.” 


32 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

She glanced round, then bent forward, taking him by the 
lapel of the coat, “It’s full of them, my dear — full. Oh, so full.” 
Her voice sounded weary, and dreamy. “Boys like you; and 
little girls; and young maidens with their beaux — I had a beau 
myself once, boy, a long time ago. My nose wasn’t yellow 
then.” She chuckled and went on gravely, “Soldiers, ad- 
mirals, old women like me. They’re all dead, and they’re all 
alive Ml the room. Talking, laughing, arguing about things 
that were all forgotten. Oh, a hundred years ago. Playing 
cards, taking snuff. Making love, singing songs. Some I 
knew and some I didn’t know; but they are all here, and keep 
me company. So when Ihe house is quiet, and the world asleep 
— men in their beds, cattle in their byres — But you’re yawning 
again. And how sleepy your eyes arc. There, ring the bell.” 

Hossack came in and was sent to fetch the unfortunate 
Higgins, who reappeared in slippers and dressing-gown. “I’m 
ready to go up, Higgins. Give me my stick.” An ivory- 
handled stick was given her, and Higgins came forward to help 
her. “What, with a man about ? I thought you knew me bet- 
ter, Higgins. . . . Master . . . Dunstan’s to sleep in the blue 
room. You can put him to bed while I’m saying my prayers.” 

At the door of her room she said good night, and then, with 
a moment’s hesitation, kissed him. Higgins showed him into 
a cosy bedroom, with very easy chairs, a shelf of books that 
even to his sleepy eyes looked very attractive, and a bed cov- 
ered with a pink eider-down. The sheets smelt deliciously of 
lavender. 

“I — I suppose you can undress yourself?” asked Higgins. 

“Of course” — a little indignantly. 

“Well, I’m glad; it wouldn’t be quite p-proper for me to, 
would it? Now, you won’t forget to say your prayers. I 
knew a little boy who did forget, and the next morning they 
found him burnt to a cinder. Smoking in bed, it was called.” 
She spoke as if smoking in bed was some disease like heart 
trouble or apoplexy. “Good night, little boy.” 

Oh, how delicious to be under the sheets at last! But his 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 33 

old terrors almost returned, for his feet were no sooner well 
beneath the clothes than they touched something soft, and furry, 
and very warm. No more donkeys, surely? ... It was only 
a hot-water bottle covered with felt. Well, he didn’t want 
hot-water bottles in summer, and out it went. . . . 

He closed his eyes and fell asleep, wondering about the 
yellow nose of his hostess, and why she should have metal- 
polished it. . . . Perhaps it was a queer new fashion in these 
high circles. “Oh-h, how s-s-s-sleepy I. . . 


CHAPTER III 


H IS nose, acting as a thermometer, told Ledgar that a 
fresh morning had succeeded the storm. 

When he opened his eyes the first time, a man was 
laying the fire and filling a large bath. He brought a cup of 
tea and biscuits. How jolly! When he opened his eyes the 
second time, having turned over for another nap, he saw a 
boy in a red dressing-gown standing at the foot of his bed — a 
boy a little older than himself, with dark curly hair, a hand- 
some arched nose not unlike the old lady’s (but not yellow — 
that did not seem to be hereditary), a splendid set of teeth, and 
very bright, dark eyes. 

“Hullo!” he said. 

“Hullo!” 

“I’m Gordon Beltinge. Heard all about you. Hope you 
slept all right. I say, grandma says you need not bother about 
getting up before you like. Oh, I say, Simmons has given you 
the big bath; I always like that. I’ll have my tub in here if 
you’re not ready, and we can talk. Grandma says do you want 
anything. If so, you’re to tell me. Don’t shave, of course.” 
While he was talking he stripped, and douched himself with 
an enormous sponge. 

“When Uncle Charles was at Cambridge, there was a man 
on the same staircase, he told me, who always imitated the 
master being bathed by his wife. Awfully funny, he said, to 
hear him imploring her not to wet his head. Simmons! Sim- 
mons! Bring me a bigger bath towel. Is it warmed? Now 
fill the bath again for Master — ^what’s your name? Dunstan. 
. . . Oh, I was talking about the man on Uncle Charles’s 
staircase. I always sing when I’m tubbing. Don’t mind, do 
you? I’ll stop it if you do.” 


34 


The Rise of L,edgar Dunstan 35 

He began at the top of a very clear, not unmelodious, young 
voice, 

Christians, awake, salute the happy morn, 

JV hereon the Saviour of the world was born; 

Rise to adore the mystery of love, 

Which hosts of angels chanted from above. 

Oh, I believe that’s a Christmas hymn. I’m not particular, 
you know. Oh, I say; such a queer thing at school one night 
last term. There was a newish master on duty, and the boys 
kept fidgeting during prayers, wanting to get to supper, and 
two or three boys began to make for the door before Amen. 
So he just kept a corner of his eye on us, and went through 
half the Prayer Book. One of the fellows says he actually 
brought in Prayers for the Churching of Women, but I didn’t 
hear that. Jolly irreverent, though. Oh, I say, I may as well 
say my prayers in here, too, talking about ’em. You don’t 
mind?” 

He went down on his knees, and remained there gravely and 
in silence for some minutes. Ledgar was impressed, and a 
little startled. He himself would have been far too self-con- 
scious. The little religious booklets given him at home told 
such shocking stories of boys at boarding-schools who had boots 
thrown at their heads when they ventured to pray publicly. 
But then no doubt Beltinge belonged to the Church of Eng- 
land, where things seemed easier because everyone knew it was 
quite a fashionable belief. 

“Oh, damn,” said Beltinge, “I believe I’ve run a splinter 
into my foot. . . . Now I’m going out rabbiting when I’ve got 
my things on, but you’d better go to sleep again for a bit. 
Nothing you want? Ask me about anything you don’t know, 
you know. Breakfast? Half-past eight; but whenever you’re 
ready.” 

There was one question Ledgar was dying to ask, but it 
seemed impertinent. “I say,” he began, and stopped lamely. 

“What is it?” 


36 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Why, I — I — last night, you know; it was awfully rude of 
me, but I could not help looking at your grandmother’s nose. 
I’m very sorry, but” — he could not ask point-blank, “Why has 
Mrs. Beltinge a yellow nose?” 

“Oh, that,” said Gordon, and laughed. “She’s a bit cranky, 
grandma is, you know. She feels the cold awfully; that’s why 
we have fires everywhere. Why, even in August she’s had 
chilblains. Says it’s her thin blood, because it’s so old; our 
family came over with some old Johnnie before the Conquest 
— ^Julius Caesar or Noah or someone; I know it wasn’t Wil- 
liam. . . . The other day she thought a chilblain was coming 
on her nose, and that’s a jolly awkward place, you know; can’t 
very well wear cotton wool on your nose, unless you wear an 
egg cosy. . . . Well, grandma’s awfully keen on samples, you 
know. Can’t stand hawkers at any price; but when samples 
come by post, or get slung in at the doors, she’s on ’em at once. 
Likes getting things on the cheap, I think. Not that she’s 
mean — Oh, not a bit of real meanness about her. She’s jolly 
kind to me, and the poor people in the parish would do any- 
thing for her. But I’ve known her drive a dozen miles to save 
sixpence when she’s shopping. So she tries all these samples; 
always taking pills and tonics and things. T’other day she got 
hold of a tin of metal polish, and she’s a bit short-sighted, so 
rubbed it on her nose for the chilblain. And now they can’t 
get it off. Awful thing, isn’t it? Suppose it never does come 
off? Fancy people crying over you in your coffin with a yellow 
nose. Jolly glad I didn’t put any on; fancy going through life 
with a yellow nose — school. Varsity, all that. I do wish it had 
been Higgins, though. She and I don’t hit it. We think it’s 
coming off a bit; it’s not so bad as it was. Higgins has a go at 
her every morning with a toothbrush. . . . Well, so long.” 

Ledgar heard him whistling a few minutes later in the fresh 
morning air. He got out of bed and went to the bookshelf. 
There were about twenty books, two or three of them devo- 
tional. If it really were true about God, he thought (which 
seemed sometimes possible and sometimes extremely unlikely) 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 37 

his good fortune deserved some recognition. He took down the 
“Pilgrim’s Progress,” and read once again of the Slough of 
Despond, of Giants Hope and Despair, of Mr. Presumption 
who thought that every tub should stand on its own bottom; 
of Vanity Fair, with British Row, and French Row, and Ger- 
man Row, and the merchandises and delights sold there, and 
the jugglings, cheats, games, apes, knaves, and rogues to be 
found. But because the book had been one of those pressed 
upon him by his parents, he read it as a task. To the end of 
his life Ledgar had a curious prejudice against the “Pickwick 
Papers,” and for this reason: One day — it was a week-day, 
which seemed to make the hardship greater — his mother took 
an exciting story about highwaymen which he was reading 
from him, and substituted Pickwick. Not a great hardship; 
but he did want to know what happened when the man in the 
dark corner of the inn followed the stout old gentleman out of 
doors. And so he read that immortal book with a haunting 
suspicion that Mr. Pickwick was only another Christian in 
secular disguise, that their wanderings were only another jour- 
ney to celestial regions; and that Mrs. Bardell, Jingle, Mrs. 
Cluppins, Dodson and Fogg, and all the book’s villains and 
bad characters were only another version of Apollyon and his 
disciples and Satanic crew. 

So Bunyan’s Vanity Fair was soon discarded for another, 
in which he read, not indeed for the first time (he was a great 
reader as soon as he could form letters into words), of Becky 
Sharp and the great Dixonary handed to her and f^ung con- 
temptuously away; of Jos Sedley in Vauxhall Gardens, and of 
that tragic evening of the world’s history, when, darkness 
falling on Belgian field and city, poor little Emmy knelt in 
prayer for George Osborne, who lay dead at Waterloo with a 
bullet through his heart. 

He wandered through a street or two of old Paris with 
Athos, Aramis, and Porthos; saw Xury kill the lion on the 
Morocco shore; it was hard to pick and choose among old 
favorites. At last he chose a book he had not read before — 


38 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

a book by a certain Mr. Twain, about a boy who knocked about 
among bearded, spitting, chewing Mississippi pilots; and was 
a stowaway; and saw people shot; and ran naked in sunshine 
about a lonely island; and had the j oiliest times on earth. He 
took this into bed and was deep in its pages when the booming 
of a gong reminded him of breakfast. 

Mrs. Beltinge took this meal in her room. 

Higgins presided; very prim and polite, and particularly 
anxious to hear that he had not forgotten to say his prayers. 
A little girl, a year or so younger than himself, sat also at the 
table, and was duly introduced as Miss Mary Beltinge. She 
was pale, with fair hair; handsome rather than pretty, Ledgar 
thought; her upper-lip very short, giving her a look which 
might have been described according to taste as aristocratic 
or disdainful; her nose, of course, high-arched. 

Gordon came in when the meal was half finished. He was 
in riding breeches and gaiters, and looked flushed and very 
jolly. “Hullo. Sorry Fm late, Higgins. Morning, Mary. 
S’pose Higgins has introduced you properly? Master Dun- 
stan — Bloody Mary.” 

There seemed to have been a little tiff. Mary’s pale face 
flushed. 

“Gordon, you’re horrid.” 

“A great compliment, my dear. It’s a pet name,” he ex- 
plained. “Virgin Queen, wasn’t she, Higgins?” ‘ 

It was Miss Higgins’s turn to blush. “Whether she was or 
not, please don’t discuss Virgin Queens at the breakfast table. 
Master Gordon ; I do not like it.” 

Gordon’s spirit seemed carrying him away a little. “Sorry,” 
he said. “Always like to make the conversation as improving 
as' possible. History is an improving subject, isn’t it. Miss 
Higgins? I say, Mary, you know Henry the Eighth married 
six wives and — two bloaters, please.” 

“My dear, isn’t he perfectly awful?” said Mary to Miss 
Higgins, with a grown-up gesture of despair. “Marrying two 
bloaters indeed!” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 39 

“No, no; six wives, of course. For goodness’ sake, don’t 
make these ridiculous remarks, or you’ll confuse me so that 
I’ll be asking Higgins for six wives. With soft roes, please. 
They’re so small. Well, as I was saying, he cut off three of 
their heads, and then they brought him Anne of Cleves’s por- 
trait. Do you know what happened?” 

“Don’t answer him. Miss Higgins. I know he’s only going 
to saw something silly like ‘you’re another.’ ” 

“He never smiled again. My dear Mary, if he could see 
your portrait now he’d never leave off smiling. Eggs, please. 
Buck up, Dunstan, and we’ll go and see the stables.” 

Gordon and Mary got on well enough together, but there 
was frequent sparring between them. He kept up a running 
conversation while eggs, porridge, toast and marmalade disap- 
peared. Then he remembered with concern that there had 
been no sausages. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter; I don’t seem to have any appetite 
this morning. I never can stand sticking a long time at meals, 
though. Not like the Andertons at Franton Court. They’re 
awful pigs. Young Anderton always takes an hour over his 
breakfast. They gave an enormous dinner-party once, and 
some people who called the next afternoon found ’em sitting 
at the table still, fast asleep — simply gorged out. Fact. Now 
let’s go to the stables.” 

He explained on the way that an ideal host always showed 
guests round the stables after breakfast. Correct thing to do, 
Uncle Charles said. Uncle Charles was a ripping chap. Sort 
of modern Chesterman — Chesterfield — Chesterton — not quite 
sure about the name, but Uncle Charles gave him his letters to 
read on his birthday. Bit dry, but awfully clever. 

“So I always show people round the stables. We had the 
old parson here in the winter for a few days, and I took him 
round the first morning. Directly after breakfast next day I 
saw him slinking off to the library. ‘No you don’t, old boy,’ 
I said to myself, ‘not if I know it. Out you come to the 
stables.’ And come he did, every morning till he went away; 


40 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

and I reckon he was just about sick of stables by that time. 
Still, it’s the correct thing. . . . There’s the church ; the church- 
yard wall runs along by the side of the park. We’ll go in if 
you like! 

A wonderful old church, thought Ledgar, with its Bel- 
tinge hatchments, and Beltinge casques, and Beltinge me- 
morial slabs, and Beltinge monuments. If the drawing-room 
was full of ghosts, certainly this church was; ghosts of dead 
admirals and generals on the memorial tablets, and ghosts of 
old knights who lay with crossed legs in their last sleep ; ghosts 
of ruffed men and ladies, and of rows of stiff little praying 
children. And over all the faint, indescribable odor which 
clings to all properly constituted ancient churches. 

It seemed to Ledgar a very fine thing to inherit a name and 
ancestry like that. A very easy thing, too, to be religious and 
good ; far different from having your dead people tucked away 
among hosts of strangers — tradespeople, lots of them; a pork 
butcher had had the impertinence to get himself buried in the 
next grave to their own — in a dingy cemetery with inverted 
torches on the gates. . . . He wondered whether it was true 
that all these people would rise on Resurrection Day. It had 
puzzled him in the cemetery; how could they get out from 
under the enormous monuments when the last trump sounded ? 
He felt sure that some, old ladies and those who were very 
weak and ill when they died, would never get out in time 
at all. 

There were deer in the park; and on a terrace a peacock 
strutted. Then Ledgar held a muzzled ferret while Gordon’s 
dog went after a rabbit; and after that there was the house 
itself to be seen. “Good old portraits, aren’t they? I forgef 
who they all are; grandma knows; she’s awfully keen on that 
sort of thing. That girl’s my favorite. Isn’t she ripping? 
I always wink at her and she seems to wink back. Jolly sad 
to think she’s just a lump of dust now. Oh, I say, what do you 
think Aunt Emma — her husband’s a minor canon, you know — 
wanted grandma to do? She wanted her to pin lace on to all 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 41 

those Lely women. Grandma was highly amused. But then 
Aunt Emma’s an awful prude.” 

There were a number of old masters, holy families, beggars, 
martyrs, Venuses, and cupids, and cherubs. Gordon thought 
it rather jolly to be a cherub; they couldn’t whack you then at 
school — there was nothing to whack. On the frieze of the 
drawing-room Ledgar noticed the lion and fleur-de-lys which 
were the Beltinge crests; and at the table where he and Mrs. 
Beltinge had played snap by candle-light the previous night, 
Mary was painting on vellum small coats-of-arms. “Rather 
decent work,” said Gordon. “I’m no good at it, though; 
grandma started me on it, but she said she drew the line at 
pink lions and green eyes, even in heraldry. I thought it 
looked rather original. What’s that you’re dabbing in now, 
Mary?” 

“Vair,” said Mary. “It’s a kind of fur. Some people say 
that Cinderella’s slipper was made of vair, only they thought it 
was verre — glass, you know. Do you speak French?” 

“Pas beaucoup,” said Ledgar. 

“Mary speaks like a native. She had a French governess. 
The grandmater and she go at it hammer and tongs. She 
was at school near Paris, fifty years ago. Grandmater, of 
course — not Mary. Oh, here she comes.” 

Mrs. Beltinge, aided by her stick and Miss Higgins, entered 
the drawing-room. Looking at a small enameled watch, Mrs. 
Beltinge said that they would start in another hour. In the 
meantime. Miss Higgins was to read “Cranford.” Miss Hig- 
gins was scarcely a cheerful reader. She had not exactly a 
sepulchral voice — that would be too dignified a term — but a 
voice which might be described as a little cinerary urn voice. 
Before long, the old lady began to lose patience. “You are 
really reading worse than usual today, Higgins.” The com- 
panion showed more spirit than might have been expected. 

“I was not aware of it, ma’am.” 

“H’m, it scarcely seems possible. Don’t flush like that. 
You’re irritable again this morning. What’s the matter? Out 


42 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

of bed the wrong side? Or did you forget to say your pray- 
ers? You’re very fond of reminding other people. Oh, take 
the book, boy, and let’s see what you can do. Gordon can’t 
read, and Mary is so precise ; anyone would think she had a pat 
of iced butter in her mouth!” 

And so for an hour, until Hossack announced the carriage, 
Ledgar — ^who really read very well — kept her amused with 
the pages of that delightful book. And then came the long 
drive home. A fat coachman, a long footman, two fat horses, 
and armorial bearings! Rather an imposing equipage for a 
returning prodigal! She had taken him for a gentleman and 
treated him as one ; but he very much wondered how she would 
regard the cottage and his family. That Mrs. Beltinge, aristo- 
crat as she was to her finger tips or the tip of her nose (now 
closely veiled), was certainly not a snob, was soon evident. 
Before they were very far on the road, she had stopped to 
speak to half a dozen villagers, and had actually given a lift to 
an old woman with a great bundle of washing. And it was a 
great thing to see how these two old ladies tried to outvie each 
other in politeness. “I hope you know by now,” she remarked, 
“that the one thing that keeps a man from being a gentleman 
is snobbishness. You know what a snob is? Have you read 
Thackeray’s ‘Book of Snobs?’ Read it ... If you’re ever 
tempted to think you’re better than other people, just remem- 
ber this and say it over to yourself. I have ten fingers and 
thumbs and ten toes; the workhouse boy has ten fingers and 
thumbs and ten toes; the Prince of Wales has ten fingers and 
thumbs and ten toes. Or if you think you know more than 
other people about religion, or if you think you know as much 
as other people, just remember this and say it over to yourself: 
I have as many eyes and ears as Mr. Bradlaugh, and Mr. 
Bradlaugh has as many eyes and ears as Mr, Spurgeon, and 
Mr. Spurgeon has as many eyes and ears as the Pope, and the 
Pope has as many eyes and ears as the Archbishop of Canter- 
bury, and the Archbishop of Canterbury has as many eyes and 
ears as a pig — and one less tail. Of course, if you see inside 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 43 

what I say, you’ll know that I’m not speaking disrespectfully 
of the Archbishop. Do you know what the soul of a word is, 
boy? The body is how the word looks when it’s written, and 
the spirit is how it sounds, but the soul is its real, inside mean- 
ing. You’ll understand better when you’re older. A great 
many more things have souls than people think. Did your 
mother ever tell you fairy tales — nursery tales? Nursery tales 
have souls. And the Bible stories are all really the nursery 
tales; and the nursery tales are all really the Bible stories. The 
man who killed the goose who laid the golden eggs, is just the 
man who lost his soul and killed the love of God. It doesn’t 
sound respectful, but it’s true. And Bluebeard’s chamber is 
only another word for the Holy of Holies; and the Holy of 
Holies is just another name for the Forbidden Tree. There! 
Higgins is snoring. ... So here’s your cottage!” 

The interview passed off more satisfactorily than might 
have been expected. The fatted calf was not exactly killed; 
indeed Mr. Dunstan at first seemed far more inclined to kill 
Ledgar; but there was no question about the relief of the 
whole family at his return. Mrs. Dunstan frequently had 
nerves when interviewing ladies of higher social standing than 
her own, and Ledgar was very much afraid that she might 
drop an aitch or two (Gawd help her if she did!) but she 
rose magnificently to the occasion. Mrs. Beltinge was gracious- 
ness itself. She told a little story of a local preacher who 
waxed very sympathetic over the prodigal having to eat the 
‘husks of swine’ — under the impression that this meant pig- 
skins, and would therefore have been particularly obnoxious 
diet to a Jew. She exhibited her nose for the gratification of 
the children, and told one or two small stories at her own ex- 
pense; but it was quite easy all the time to see that she was 
really a great lady of ancient lineage, who could afford on oc- 
casion to unbend. She petted Adalbert’s kitten, and said that 
she had a beautiful little half-Persian cat at home, which, in 
the winter, wore a blue jacket and two small pairs of drawers. 
She stipulated that Ledgar should receive no more thrashings; 


44 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

to which Mr. Dunstan agreed after some demur. He was 
quite determined, however, on two points; there were to be 
no more escapades of this nature, and Ledgar was to smuggle 
home no more pets. “I don’t mind his keeping a silkworm,’' 
he said, as a great concession, “if he promises to feed it and 
keep it clean.” When the fat horses, the fat coachman, the 
long footman. Miss Higgins, and Mrs. Beltinge drove away, 
they left behind them a family united and in great good 
humor; bygones were to be bygones; and Ledgar was rein- 
stated as a full member of the little circle. 

But Mr. Dunstan was not a man to forget very easily. He 
said nothing; Ledgar was suspicious, however, that something 
was going on behind the scenes. His father and mother were 
caught in mysterious conversation at odd moments and in odd 
corners, and broke off abruptly when detected. They used a 
queer code sometimes for younger children, formed by reversing 
words and omitting awkward letters; so that if Mrs. Dunstan 
said “Deb ot og ot nerdlic rof emit sti knit i,” you knew per- 
fectly well (once in the secret) that she was saying, “I think 
it’s time for the children to go to bed.” . . . Occasionally they 
spoke in French, but a French which would have made even a 
Parisian poodle’s hair stand on end. . . . Then mysterious 
documents arrived by post; and Ledgar discovered a prospectus 
advertising the advantages of a school “for the children of gen- 
tlemen only.” It puzzled him very much to know how a child 
could be the child of a gentleman only. 

It was on the evening of a very memorable day that Mr. 
Dunstan took his son into his confidence. A note from Mrs. 
Beltinge had invited Ledgar to go up to London for the day, 
with Gordon and Mary. It was his first visit to the metropo- 
lis. He joined his hostess and her companions at the local 
station; and for a time, as their traveling-companion, they had 
the clergyman whom Gordon had chaperoned round the Bel- 
tinge stables. He was extremely attentive, and spoke (to quote 
Gordon) as if his voice had somehow been tipped over, and 
had to be used while on its side. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 45 

“Visiting relatives, I presume, Mrs. Beltinge? Dear me, 
very pleasant, very pleasant.** Ledgar noticed that everything 
seemed very pleasant. 

Mrs. Beltinge, as Gordon observed, was not a lady one 
could get much change from. “That rather depends on the 
relatives,” she said. “However, we’re thinking of visiting 
the Zoo and Madame Tussaud’s.*’ 

“Dear me. Very pleasant. The Chamber of Horrors? 
Ah, I’ve been there. Very pleasant, very pleasant.” 

Ledgar wondered how he managed to escape. 

It was a glorious day — something like being shut up for a 
few hours in a kaleidoscope. They dashed about in hansoms, 
here, there, and ever3rwhere ; visited Madame Tussaud’s, where 
Ledgar sat in Napoleon’s carriage, and Gordon was particu- 
larly anxious that Miss Higgins should put her neck in the 
guillotine; went to the Zoo, where Gordon introduced Mary 
gravely to a particularly hideous ape as a distinguished an- 
cestor, educated in the higher branches; went to the Polytech- 
nic and saw little birds with fluffy tails spun out of glass, and 
went down in the diving bell (Gordon here wanting Miss 
Higgins to play at Jonah or Noah’s dove) and saw Pepper’s 
ghost, with one scene with a knight watching his armor — 
which Mrs. Beltinge told Gordon was exactly the same thing as 
confirmation. 

And, during a flying visit to the Japanese village, Mary 
nursed a tiny black-eyed, black-haired doll-of-a-baby, which 
she would most certainly have purchased if it had been for 
sale. But it wasn’t, and Gordon’s plans for the rehabilitation 
of their dead Maltese terrier’s kennel fell to the ground. 

Well, this was great Babylon; and its towers and spires 
and domes and steeples, its rivers eddying under bridges, car- 
rying bargemen and mariners and London trippers under the 
shadow of the age-old monument from Lybian sands, its 
argosies bearing wealth from the confines of an Empire which 
one has called “a Venice, with the sea for streets;** its crowded, 
thronging, colored life moving like another river between 


46 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

walls, new or old, as it has moved, changing, yet essentially 
unchanged, for a thousand years, kaleiodoscopic, now drab, 
now gay; its unnumbered buildings holding the secrets of such 
endeavor, such tragedy, such happiness, such agony — all these 
stirred the boy’s imagination as nothing hitherto experienced, 
had done. Oh, to live here! To be part, if only the tiniest 
atomic part, of its swelling tide of life; to wander at will as 
in a vast treasure house of spectacles, of emotions, of experi- 
ences, of strange adventures . . . 

The wish, in some measure, was to be gratified sooner 
than he knew. 

His father and mother were sitting up for him when he 
returned. “Well, what do you think of London, Ledgar?” 

“It’s — it’s fine, mother.” 

“How would you like to live there, my boy?” 

“You bet — I mean, very much indeed, pa— father, I mean.” 

And then he heard that he was to go, as soon as certain 
final arrangements had been made, to the school for the chil- 
dren of gentlemen only. 


CHAPTER IV 


A LARGE box, a small box, a traveling rug — and Led- 
gar. These four articles, duly labeled (because Mrs. 
Dunstan insisted on fixing a ticket on Ledgar himself), 
arrived one winter’s afternoon by the two-fifteen from Came 
Junction, at Ludgate Hill. Ledgar had been counseled to 
spend part of the journey up in committing to memory certain 
commandments which he had been strictly enjoined to observe. 
( I ) Thou shalt always wear flannel next to thy skin. 

{2) Thou shalt not forget to wash thy neck (“Penalty, 
forty shillings without the option,” was a side comment of 
Gordon’s). 

(3) Thou shalt say thy prayers, read the Bible daily, and 
go to Bible class. 

(4) Thou shalt not squeeze thy sides or make grimaces 
(because Ledgar did both these things when carried away by 
intense excitement, and Mrs. Dunstan was afraid they might 
get him into trouble). 

(5) Thou shalt not eat lobster, or any shell fish, because 
these bring thee out in spots. 

(6) Thou shalt not bully, nor fight the other boys. 

Ledgar was secretly inclined to think that there was far 
more danger that he would himself be bullied. To this sixth 
commandment Gordon added as a rider, “If a boy punches 
you or gives you any cheek, jolly well punch him back, and 
don’t take any chances. And don’t get turning the other 
cheek, whatever you do. You aren’t a patriarch or an apostle.” 

In the highest of high spirits, he had said good-bye at the 
station to his own people, to Winnie and to Gordon. There 
had been a farewell-party the night before ; his smaller box was 
laden with cakes, pots of jam, books and presents from various 

47 


48 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Dunstans, Campions, Beltinges, and friends at Ebenezer 
Chapel. 

From the stretches of flat wintry sand, where gulls circled 
and small boats lay canted over, at the journey’s opening; to 
the last few miles of jumbled roofs and dull streets, Ledgar 
was keenly observant and hugely interested. This at last was 
London; London which some day he was going to conquer; 
London, the scene of wild adventures yet to be, of entrancing 
tales yet unwritten or untold. London ... It was one of 
his ambitions, vague as yet, to be a writer. That—or an Em- 
peror. He was not sure at present; both had their attractions. 

But he certainly meant, at school and afterwards, to do very 
great things. Long hours had been spent in thinking how 
from the very start he could impress his new school-fellows 
and obtain an ascendancy over them. In the back-garden, he 
had thrown imaginary balls imaginary miles — over sun and 
planets they had seemed to fly — by way of practice for the 
cricket matches; had kicked and butted imaginary footballs; 
had hacked and scrimmaged until any amount of imaginary 
skin was off imaginary legs ; and had swum with the combined 
energy of Leander, Byron, and Captain Webb (though only 
through the air). It was the simplest business in the world — 
in imagination, and already imaginary rows of imaginary boys 
stood with their imaginary eyes and mouths wide open in ad- 
miration. 

At Ludgate Hill, an elderly gentleman, very short, very 
stout, with mutton-chop whiskers of a reddish-gray, waited, 
on legs so rotund and so solid that they seemed to contradict 
the Psalmist’s assertion that the Lord did not delight in the 
legs of a man, to receive the newcomer. This was Mr. Muttle- 
boy, Ledgar’s great-uncle; of Jewin Street (where he carried 
on a prosperous business in Manchester goods), and of the 
Crescent, Kennington, S.E. It had been arranged that Ledgar 
was to be a weekly boarder at the school, and spend Saturday 
to Monday at the Crescent. Mr. Muttleboy was examining 
an enormous repeater when the train drew up. If he did not 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 49 

exactly wear bells on his fingers and rings on his toes like the 
cock-horse rider, he was provided on his person with so many 
chains, fobs, tins, and other jingling ornaments — watch chain, 
key chain, tobacco tin, match tin (at least they looked and 
sounded like tin) that when he moved he gave the impression 
of a milk cart; indeed, rude little boys had even been known 
to call after him “Milk-Coo” in the streets. In appearance, 
with his conical, dinted, soft felt hat, he looked rather like 
those figures who accompany the animals in Noah’s ark. 

“How do you do, Uncle Abinadab?” 

“Three minutes late,” said Uncle Abinadab gruffly; as if 
“three minutes late” was a peculiar ailment from which he 
suffered. As a matter of fact, he never did suffer from this 
ailment. He prided himself op never being late; never meant 
to be late either, until circumstances over which he had no 
control should turn him into the late Mr. Muttleboy forever. 
“Three minutes late. A bad start, my boy.” Ledgar won- 
dered whether this implied that he should have got out and 
pushed. “We’ll be late to tea, and nothing upsets your aunt 
so much as that. Run and get a cab — Hi, four-wheeler! 
What’s your fare to the Crescent, Kennington? . , . Too 
much, too much ; I’ll give you eighteenpence. Your horse can 
do the distance?” 

“Do the distance? Why, you’re making her prick her ears 
up, guv’nor. That there horse ain’t no ordinary horse, I can 
tell you. She’s a Derby winner, she is; won it twice, and the 
Oaks three times. She’ll do the distance all right, but I reckon 
she’ll feel insulted if you ask her to go for less than three and 
six. Why, she’s been to Dorking and back this wery arter- 
noon.” 

“Ah,” said Uncle Abinadab, who evidently understood the 
London cabby, and was not (thought Ledgar) quite such a 
fool as he looked, “I thought she didn’t seem quite fresh. Er 
— you say she won the Derby? That’s very creditable. And 
may I ask, what is the Derby?” 

“Well, it ain’t a chapel-bazaar raffle, guv’nor; that’s wot it 


50 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ain’t. Looky ’ere, me and my horse isn’t here for a laughing 
stock. Three bob or nuffink — and it’s worth it.” 

“Half-a-crown, if you’ll tie a knot in her tail to keep her from 
slipping through the collar.” 

It was Saturday afternoon, and they passed through streets 
in which, as darkness fell, great naphtha flares lit up the stalls 
of gutter merchants, giving a curiously Rembrandtesque ap- 
pearance to the sordid crowds of onlookers, customers, and 
salesmen. Now and again a shop caught Ledgar’s eye as de- 
serving better acquaintance; an old curiosity shop, with rusty 
armor, old china, faded pictures, and antique furniture in 
the windows ; a bookshop ; a picture dealer’s. He saw a child 
in excited conversation with a leg of mutton; heard an old 
woman paying fulsome and quite genuine compliments on her 
wit to a sepulchral looking female who was evidently in danger 
of serious internal injury through her efforts to live up to her 
reputation. 

And at last they reached Number 4, The Crescent. 

This Crescent seemed to be a strange survival of an older 
London. Great gates shut it off from the main road, and in 
front was a railed-in demilune, sown with grass and planted 
with flags and bushes. There were about a dozen houses, all 
old, all solemn, all having the same air of heaviness and im- 
portance. Mounting blocks near the doors, and metal loops 
in which links were once placed, showed that these were cer- 
tainly entitled to the dubious compliment bestowed on faded 
beauties — they had had a Past. From these very houses the 
Amelias and Beckys and Jos Sedleys of another generation 
started, on forgotten jolly evenings, for Vauxhall or Cre- 
morne. 

Their Present was to house opulent Muttleboys of London 
City and their families in such a way that the advantages of 
the West End were combined with the economy of the suburbs. 
Ledgar noticed that, although his uncle did not keep a car- 
riage, one or two other dwellers in the Crescent did so ; and on 
the walls of some rooms of which he caught a glimpse were 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 51 

really valuable pictures and old china. Yet all around them 
surged poverty, squalor, distress. A strange contrast and a 
strange survival, the Crescent stood out like an oasis in a desert 
of misery; an island in a sea of tempest and distress and 
wreckage. 

Rubbing their boots on a large “Salve” mat — ^which Uncle 
Abinadab had purchased at a sale of effects, when a famous 
neighboring mansion was disbanded — they passed through a 
wide hall to a small and cosy sitting-room. It was the only 
room which by any stretch of the imagination could be called 
cosy in the whole house. French doors, now screened by heavy 
red curtains, opened on to a small greenhouse containing a vine. 
On the w’alls were comparatively cheerful pictures; several 
tropical birds with marvelously colored tails; it appeared that 
the tails were by an eminent artist who specialized in such 
matters; the bodies were painted by a nonentity. Mrs. Bel- 
tinge would have said that the birds were symbolic of hu- 
manity. There were two or three crudely colored pictures 
from English history; the Bible being placed in the hands of 
Henry the Eighth; the Wreck of the Armada; and Marian 
martyrs burning at fine blazing fires. These really made the 
room quite homelike. 

Mrs. Muttleboy — the Aunt Eliza of the ten-pound notes — 
sat at a round table before a large tea-tray, with mounds of 
toast, muffins and bread and butter displayed in front of her. 
“We’ll catch it for being late,” said Uncle Abinadab in a whis- 
per at the door. “Your aunt’s a holy terror, my boy. Just 
you notice whether she calls me Ab or Dab. Dab means she’s 
in a good humor. But if she says Ab — we’re done.” 

He was so fat that when he spoke it was in grunts and 
gurgles; his whisper was something like the whistle of a very 
small, out-of-order locomotive. Aunt Eliza did say Ab; so it 
was evident that they were done indeed. She was a plump 
lady, well on in middle age; with a florid, good-humored face 
— not really the face of a holy terror — a firm mouth, a distinct 
mustache, which was gray, and an emphatic fringe, which was 


52 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

just as decidedly golden. And she was dressed in the most 
vivid red. 

“Now youVe late, Ab. I said to Jane, ‘I do believe your< 
master will be late,’ and you are.” She wagged a fat finger 
at him. 

“Very sorry, my love. Our cabhorse has been so busy win- 
ning Derbys and doing other aristocratic things, that she fainted 
directly she caught sight of Kennington, and we could only get 
her along at all by slinging the nosebag on a string. Still, 
here we are.” 

“So this is Emmeline’s boy,” said Mrs. Muttleboy, taking 
Ledgar’s hand in one of her plump hands, and making an 
osculatory movement towards him. But she drew back sud- 
denly, and asked, “Have you had the measles, my dear?” 

“Yes, aunt,” he said, thinking that her florid complexion 
must be due to that complaint, and that she was anxious not 
to infect him. 

“And whooping cough, and chicken-pox, and scarlet fever?” 

Good gracious! She could not really be suffering from 
all those? 

“Whooping-cough and chicken-pox, aunt; not scarlet fever.” 

“Oh, well, let’s hope you’ll escape that.” He sincerely 
hoped so, as she pecked his forehead. “But I do dislike illness 
in the house. You see it’s not only unpleasant; sometimes it’s 
very serious. Why,” her eyes seemed to grow very round, 
“people die of it sometimes. There; don’t look so terribly 
serious. But I bought a little dog once, and it took ill almost 
at once, and then died; and the veterinary said I ought to 
have asked first whether it had had distemper. What was I 
to know about distemper? I thought they only distempered 
houses. So I make that one of my rules. No illness allowed, 
and no dying on the premises.” 

“Your aunt’s not been very fortunate in her pets. She 
bought a canary once, but it turned into a sparrow the first 
time she put water in its cage. And then she had a parrot, 
because, though it had lost its wings and was as bald as an 


Whe Rise of L.edgar Dunstan 53 

egg, it was such a splendid talker. But all it could do was 
to flap its stumps and say, ‘Blimey, Fm going to fly, Fm going 
to fly.’ ” 

After tea, Ledgar and Mrs. Muttleboy played bagatelle. 
He won so frequently that she became quite huffy, and, find- 
ing it impossible to lose by legitimate means, he was compelled 
to tilt the table and thus insure missing the holes and hatches. 
Her good humor quite restored, she bade him good night quite 
genially, warning him that he must be down punctually at 
a quarter to eight for prayers. “We believe in rules here, 
Ledgar. I was brought up strictly; and I believe in con- 
forming to regulation. So does your uncle. You’ll find your 
uncle just, but very strict — ^very strict. In fact — ” and Aunt 
Elizabeth looked round cautiously, and whispered, “between 
you and me. Uncle Abinadab, when things dont go smoothly, 
is a holy terror!** 

Between two holy terrors, Ledgar wondered how he was 
to manage to exist. It was quite evident that Mrs. Muttleboy 
was not used to children; you could tell that from her in- 
quiries as to illness. But rumor said that of all the unnum- 
bered forgotten episodes that during millions of years have 
made up human life upon this earth, once a certain short, 
stout young man did run on very imposing legs to a doctor’s 
in a little side street in Kennington; that a plump young 
woman did lie in quite a humble room, cuddling, a few hours 
later, a very fat, very red, very ugly baby, which only sur- 
vived a day. It was the one tragedy of their placid lives. 

Saw the World. Stayed a Day 
Didn’t Like It — Came Away 

That might have been its epitaph. But in the mother’s heart 
was enshrined another, the counterpart of which may be seen 
on a tiny stone in a quiet corner of Westminster. 

James Abinadab Muttleboy 
Dear Child 


54 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Ledgar was given an enormous bedroom, large enough to 
accommodate a curate’s family, with a four-poster in which 
a married elephant and his wife might comfortably have slept. 
Indeed, he was quite lost. Immense convex windows looked 
out over a large garden with stone vases, broad gravel paths, 
and a well-kept lawn. At the end of the garden stood a 
dilapidated summer house. 

He woke the next morning to find his uncle opening the 
shutters rather noisily, as an indication that it was time to rise. 
“If you’re down a minute after the Bible’s on the table — 
Gawd help you!” If he did not actually use those words, 
it was what Ledgar gathered from his remarks. 

Aunt Eliza was seated near the fire, but with her feet 
carefully an inch or two from the external edge of the rug. 
Three very large and very ugly servants, one with a squint, 
one with red hair, one with a hare lip, were in their places; 
evident enough that Mrs. Muttleboy allowed her husband 
no followers. “Ah, just in time, Ledgar. I’m glad you’re a 
good boy. I hope you always mean to be a good boy. Be- 
cause if you aren’t . . .” 

Mrs. Muttleboy was fond of “saying with sad Solomon,” 
to quote a famous line of the poet Mackay. She went on: 

“If you aren’t, you know what Solomon says: 

Solomon said, in accents mild, 

'Spare the rod, and spoil the child; 

Be he man, or be she maid. 

Whack *em and wallop *em/ Solomon said. 

The first Chapter of the first Epistle to the Hebrews, Abin- 
adab.” 


CHAPTER V 


T hey went to chapel, where Mr. Muttleboy (who was 
senior deacon) gave out the hymns and passed the 
bag round; while a very small preacher, standing on 
a hassock, with a very big voice gave a thundering discourse 
on Hell and the joy of the elect in witnessing the agonies of 
their friends. 

In the afternoon Ledgar went to a young men’s Bible class, 
conducted by Mrs. Muttleboy; Mr. Muttleboy himself took 
the young women. He had to join in saying texts round, 
but was very glad to find that he was not called upon to 
engage in prayer. One young man who was so called upon 
made tracks incontinently for the door. His place was taken 
by another, a sandy-haired youth who was extremely long and 
extremely unctuous. Ledgar heard that he had been recently 
in disgrace, and was trying now to recover lost ground. At 
a recent bazaar, he had been given charge of the Bible Read- 
ing Association Department. “And, pray are you the Bible 
Reading Ass.?” asked Mr. Muttleboy sternly, when he saw 
the inscription “This way to the Bible-Reading Ass.” fixed 
above the door. 

The young men and young women came in the afternoon 
to tea, and sang hymns and prayed. They did this once 
a week during the winter. In summer, they played croquet, 
quoits, bowls, and sometimes even cricket on the lawn. 

Mr. Muttleboy had been in his time what Gordon would 
have described as “quite a sport.” He played cricket once, 
and with such eclat that he was never tired of repeating the 
story. 

“Wrong side of the bat, sir,” they called out, directly he 
had taken his place at the wicket. He was in shirt sleeves, 

55 


56 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

with a top hat on his head; “What’s wrong with my hat?” he 
asked, and reversed it. 

“Bat, sir, bat!” 

“How can I bat if you don’t bowl? Send me a ball, and 
I’ll bat fast enough.” 

At the first ball he struck out wildly, bringing down his 
own wickets. But this was only a trial. The second ball, 
coming very slowly, unfortunately missed the bat, and Uncle 
Abinadab deftly caught it in his left hand. He protested 
against being given out. If they wouldn’t throw the ball at 
the bat, but into his hand, how could they expect him to 
hit it? It wasn’t fair. 

But the third ball settled the matter. The bails went flying. 
“Come on, sir, come on!” shrieked uncle to his partner, mis- 
led by the frantic applause of his opponents, and flinging away 
his bat started to run madly down the pitch. . . . 

Chapel again on Sunday night, and prayers. 

Ledgar noticed that the congregation was composed of much 
the same class as that at Ebenezcr, and presented very similar 
types. There was the elderly deacon who had obviously, by 
becoming a man and a draper, missed his vocation in life, 
for he was essentially of the lady chapel-keeper type; was al- 
ways arranging hassocks and hymn books, opening pew doors, 
and, above all, shaking hands. He contrived during the two 
services to shake hands with Ledgar four times; Ledgar 
counted, and thought how much labor would be saved if the 
members had tails to which he could give a gentle pull as 
he showed them in. And Ledgar counted also { it was difficult 
to know exactly what to do) the “O Lords” in the long prayer; 
twenty-eight of them, or thirty-six and a half if you joined 
the separate “Lords” and “O’s” and counted the odd “O.” 

There was the bony, bald-headed little deacon, always crack- 
ing mild jokes — he was under the fixed impression that ladies 
and babies were the two really humorous subjects in the uni- 
verse, and that merely to mention a baby ought to suffice to 
send an audience into roars of laughter. 


The Rise of Tedgar Dunstan 57 

There was the truculent deacon, who reminded you by his 
manner, when he asked you about your soul, of Sinai, and 
kept the younger members of the congregation in trembling 
awe; there was the unctuous deacon, who rubbed his hands 
and rolled his eyes up; and there were deacons’ wives to 
match them, each of whom might have found her counterpart 
at Ebenezer. 

On Monday afternoon, these ladies and other of the more 
select female members met at the Crescent, cut up vast quan- 
tities of calico and red flannel, stitched it all together again, 
drank tea, prayed, sang a hymn, and listened while the young- 
est of them (probably because she was not so good at snip- 
ping up and putting together as the others) read “Sketches 
by Boz.” There was nothing sepulchral about her reading; 
while Miss Higgins crawled along like a hearse, she went ahead 
like a fire engine, and this had the effect of making the ladies 
snip and stitch frantically, out of emulation. You had no 
sooner made the acquaintance of the Beadle, and heard Mr, 
Bung's narrative, than you were present at a Ladies’ Society; 
and before you had become acclimatized to that, you were in 
at the next-door neighbors’. Mrs. Muttleboy told the audi- 
ence, during the pause for tea, that she had heard Charles 
Dickens himself read; and she was good enough to say that 
he was nothing like Miss Scantlebury. Only Charles Dickens 
used a great many gestures. Like this — and this — and Mrs. 
Muttleboy waved her plump arms about, pressed a hand to 
her heart, and so forth. But, of course. Miss Scantlebury 
scarcely gave herself time for that. 

“She might do the gestures at the end,” suggested Ledgar, 
which made even Miss Scantlebury herself laugh. Old Mrs. 
Bockett, who always called Mrs. Harding “Mrs. ’Arding,” 
and Mrs. Alderson “Mrs. Halderson,” disapproved of this. 
She did not hold with anything theatrical. They did not 
want anything theatrical connected with their chapel. She 
earnestly hoped Miss Scantlebury would not make an exhibi- 
tion of herself by wagging her hands about, placing them on 


58 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

her bosom, bowing and scraping, laughing and crying, raising 
her arms to heaven, and such-like antics to supply the omis- 
sions in the actual reading. And she propoged (yes, she 
really said “propoged”) that they should read next something 
more elevating; for example, “Alone in London,” or else “Jessi- 
ca’s First Prayer.” 

Then, on Monday evening, the Young Men’s Literary, with 
Mr. Muttleboy in the chair; and this Ledgar really enjoyed. 
A young man of melancholy appearance proposed that, in the 
opinion of the meeting, “It was desirable that everyone should 
be cremated and not buried.” He was such an enthusiast, 
in his own dismal way, that he made everyone feel he would 
cheerfully have cremated them all, there and then, if he could 
have afforded it, free of charge. But he succeeded in making 
them all laugh, when he said that he wrote for information 
on the subject to a leading firm, and that some weeks after a 
letter was sent reminding him that they had not yet been 
favored with his esteemed order. 

Another member, with long Dundreary whiskers, rabbit 
teeth, a red nose, and a curious affliction causing him to wag 
and nod his head spasmodically (Cicero must have found his 
wagging nose an equal trial to him), so that anything he said 
was instantly contradicted by his head, moved on the other 
hand that the meeting really thought it altogether more eco- 
nomical, reasonable, sanitary, consistent, and in every way 
enjoyable and desirable, that they should be buried. 

And, during the discussion that followed, Ledgar made his 
first public speech. Its reception was a little mixed. He told 
two stories he had read; one of a man who had lived in the 
tropics, and who startled them when they were cremating him 
and were opening the door to see how he was getting on, by 
calling out “For goodness’ sake shut that door; I’ve never 
felt such a draught in my life,” and the other of Mark Twain’s 
experience in the Wild West. He had forgotten his tooth- 
powder, and — ^well, there were Aunt Mary Ann’s ashes on the 
mantelshelf. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 59 

The sepulchral young man congratulated him, but thought 
that his remarks were not exactly arguments. 

The head-wagging gentleman also congratulated him, but 
did not think his stories in the best of taste. 

And two or three subsequent speakers said what was cer- 
tainly quite true — and what other people noticed about Ledgar 
later in his life — that he did not seem to have fixed opinions; 
he was half for one side, half for the other, without giving 
any casting vote. It was the cause to him of intense suffering 
in after life. With so many people saying so many different 
things — ^with so many arguments, so many difficulties, so many 
perplexities — what was really true? And, with so much un- 
certainty, could anything at all matter or be important? 

On Tuesday came a visit with Aunt Muttleboy to the 
British Museum. The mummies interested Ledgar most of 
all; if only his own ancestors could be pickled and kept in 
the drawing-room for reference and inspection! His grand- 
father would have made a glorious mummy. Ledgar was much 
struck by one gigantic case, and when told that it contained 
Cleopatra, inquired (perhaps through momentary lapse of mem- 
ory) "Who’s he?” 

"Good gracious me, haven’t you heard of Cleopatra?” 

"Oh, of course, aunt. . . . Hasn’t he got big feet?” 

Aunt Eliza was very fond of telling this story at his ex- 
pense; and she was never tired of chaffing him, in company, 
about his signing himself in a letter to her, "Yours truly.” . . . 
After the Museum, they took a cab to the Tate Gallery — not 
quite such an exciting business as when he was dashing about 
London with Mrs. Beltinge; Aunt Eliza did not mean to 
risk accidents, and she chose the slowest and most decrepit of 
four-wheelers. Indeed, he soon discovered that his aunt’s 
dread of illness and of death was very real. The recollection 
of the mummies distressed her; appalling to think that these 
people had really lived, and perhaps even listened to sketches 
by an Egyptian Boz at Egyptian Dorcas meetings! 

She did hope Uncle Abinadab would not have her stuffed. 


6o The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

When Ledgar knew her better, he found that she was fre- 
quently really indisposed from the effect of prophylactics taken 
in vast quantities to ward off indisposition. And once, when 
a thunderstorm came on. Aunt Eliza, trembling like a jelly, 
was discovered hidden behind dresses in a cupboard barely wide 
enough to accommodate her ample form. 

Ledgar spent a week at the Crescent. He made friends 
with the maid with a harelip, and actually condescended 
to visit her family, Mr. and Mrs. Muttleboy making no ob- 
jection. They lived in a broken-down cottage attached to some 
tile works on the banks of a canal which ran near the Crescent. 
There were great horses in the stables; on one, Ledgar — feel- 
ing as a fly must feel when perched on a round of beef — was 
allowed to take a short ride. This visit was a reward for 
Ledgar’s promptitude in fetching a large pail of water when 
she cut herself between thumb and forefinger and threw up 
her legs in a dead faint, nearly upsetting the kitchen table — 
because everyone knows this means fatal lockjaw. But she 
laughed so much at the sight of Ledgar struggling with the 
great pail, and at his evident intention to throw the whole 
contents over her, that the fatal lockjaw was providentially 
averted. In spite of the harelip, Jane had had her love affair 
— with Tom Dobbs, in a local provision shop; he brought her 
tins of potted shrimps and salmon, as tokens of affection. But 
he was fickle, and the match, notwithstanding his repentance, 
was broken off. “Look over it, Jane,” he implored, pressing 
a glass vase of very special lobster (Is. 9^d. size) upon her, 
“look over it this once.” “I cannot, Tom. You have broken 
my heart, and it is all over between us.” She told the tale 
(and took the lobster also) with keen enjoyment. 

The Crescent kitchens, like all the rooms with the exception 
of the cosy sitting-room in which Ledgar made his aunt’s ac- 
quaintance, were enormous. There was an enormous drawing- 
room, an enormous dining-room; enormous bedrooms were on 
each landing; an enormous library held enormous books, mostly 
sermons. Ledgar was promised a five-pound note if he would 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 6i 

read Manton in twenty-five volumes. All the furniture was 
on the colossal scale; colossal armchairs, ottomans, sofas, side- 
boards; four-posters in all the important bedrooms. 

On Monday morning Mr. Muttleboy took a day’s respite 
from Jewin Street, in order to escort his nephew to his new 
school. They cabbed to Liverpool Street, and then took train 
through several miles of dingy and squalid streets until these 
gave place to green fields and woodlands. A station, aston- 
ishingly country-like in spite of its proximity to town, had 
another cab in readiness. The boy’s eyes were wide open for 
every glimpse of his new surroundings. Fine trees he noticed 
everywhere; fields, now crouching bare and low under the 
winter sun; rows of red-roofed cottages, with long front gar- 
dens and bird cages fastened to the walls. An ancient church 
surrounded by graves, some covered with lichen and with moss, 
stood opposite an inn almost equally ancient, with tiny latticed 
windows, a fine galleried courtyard, mounting stones at the 
door, and a battered sign, showing Robin Hood speeding an 
arrow from his bow. Then almshouses, giving just a glimpse 
through an archway of a well-kept lawn. Then more cottages ; 
in the window of one of them, sweets and cakes. They must 
be getting near the school . . . 

Iron gates; a long drive, with playing fields on one side, 
elms in the distance, a cottage of red brick, set behind railings, 
among firs or pines; and on the other side a garden which, 
in summer, must be a blaze of roses. The master’s garden. 
And now, at long last, a large, red brick building which was 
the schoolhouse, and a smaller red brick building (as if it 
had a baby exactly like itself) attached, which was the mastcr^s 
house. 

The cabman knocked and rang, and a neat maid opened 
the door and ushered them into Dr. Greig’s study, where they 
sat for some minutes on morocco-covered chairs, studying 
a globe, marble busts of Shakespeare and Julius Caesar, rows 
©f books in calf binding, and portraits of eminent authors 
and divines. “Now mind your p’s and q’s, Ledgar,” wheezed 


62 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Uncle Abinadab, “we want you to make a good impression. 
Don’t sit on the edge of your chair, and for goodness’ sake 
don’t twiddle your thumbs like that. If your aunt saw you 
I don’t know what would happen. Don’t be nervous. Be 
respectful when you speak to the doctor, but not frightened. 
You will find him only a man like myself, after all. We want 
him to find you a manly boy. Avoid obsequience, aim at po- 
liteness and respect.” 

As a matter of fact, it was Uncle Abinadab who was in 
awe when the Presence entered; Uncle Abinadab who failed 
to disentangle obsequiousness from respect. He was obviously 
very nervous; obviously frightened, in close proximity to so 
much learning. He said “sir” after every dozen words, and 
seemed a little confused as to whether Ledgar was his nephew, 
his son, his grandson, or his great-uncle. Dr. Greig would 
scarcely have been described as a man like Mr. Muttleboy. 
He was tall, grizzled, rugged, angular; with iron-gray hair 
and beard. Someone, who had business relations with Car- 
lyle, once summed him up in half a dozen words : “Oh, he was 
a snappy old man!” 

Dr. Greig was, in some respects, a snappy old man. 

With the tips of his fingers together, he explained the prin- 
ciples on which his school was conducted. Moral and religious 
considerations, he said, came first. He was most particular 
about the moral character of the boys admitted. Now, as 
to Ledgar — what could Mr. Muttleboy, of his own personal 
knowledge, say as to his moral character? Anything to record 
against him? Any black marks? Of course,, not little pec- 
cadilloes. Mr. Muttleboy had no doubt been a boy himself. 
So (though one might not think so) had Dr. Greig. But 
nothing serious? 

Ledgar trembled. If it were revealed that he had been 
found, a runaway, in a storm, under a hedge, with a donkey? 
Would that shut him out forever from the society of the 
sons of gentlemen only? 

Mr. Muttleboy was quite reassuring; “Nothing, sir. With 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 63 

his faults, sir; with his faults like other boys; but a good 
boy.” And Ledgar’s heart warmed towards Uncle Abinadab. 

“Good. Now this is not an ordinary school; it is an orig- 
inal school, run on original lines. It is modeled on the British 
Constitution.” 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“An idea which I have worked out, Mr. Mutton — er — 
Muttleboy. I believe a brother of Rowland Hill once con- 
ducted a school in some respects similar. I represent the Sover- 
eign; a Constitutional Sovereign. Mrs. Greig, of course, rep- 
resents the Queen.” This appeared to be a joke; Dr. Greig 
smiled slightly; Mr. Muttleboy gave a great guffaw, and then, 
coughing bashfully, sank back into his shell. 

At this moment, the Queen, a plump lady younger than her 
husband, entered, and was graciously pleased to receive their 
salutations. Ledgar was just a little afraid Uncle Abinadab 
was going to kiss her hand, or go down on one knee. Indeed, 
the Jewin Street warehouseman was somewhat dubious him- 
self as to the correct attitude to be observed even towards 
such minor royalties. 

At home, from early childhood. Uncle and Aunt Muttle- 
boy had been regarded with immense respect as the heads 
and benefactors of their circle. With ample means and few 
responsibilities, they acted as fairy godfather and godmother 
to perfection; Christmas Days, birthdays, births and deaths 
among Dunstans, Muttleboys, and two or three connected fam- 
ilies, were invariably remembered; if a boy or girl was going 
to a school, if a lad was going to the colonies or into busi- 
ness, if a young man was taking unto himself a wife, they 
were ready with advice and help. 

In the glamour of distance, far away in London City, they 
assumed almost the characters of beneficent but somewhat 
awful Providences. 

Ledgar, on closer acquaintance, had come to the conclu- 
sion that they were both “awfully decent sorts.” But he had 
an uncomfortable feeling that Aunt Eliza was not exactly like 


64 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Mrs. Beltinge. She could not have carried off, with the 
same distinction, a yellow nose. And, with all her good 
nature. Aunt Eliza had % temper of her own. Sometimes, 
in altercations with her servants — which were not infrequent 
— it was just a little difficult to tell the difference between 
mistress and maid. He had heard her haggling with the little 
hunchback who sold groundsel for her canary, and with the 
man whose cart bore the alluring, if perplexing, label, “Pur- 
veyor of Cats’ Meat to Her Majesty” (why should queens eat 
cats’ meat?) in a way of which Mrs. Beltinge, he felt sure, 
would be quite incapable . . . And Uncle Abinadab was 
scarcely a modern Chesterfield like Uncle Charles. He would 
have been quite capable (awful thought!) of showing a visitor 
round the conservatory after breakfast, before the stables. 
As he sat here now, sir-ing Dr. Greig, twiddling his hat 
round nervously — a hat which still showed indications that 
Aunt Eliza, before they started, had affectionately brushed 
part of it the wrong way of the nap with a hard brush — as 
he sat here in obvious nervousness at being in a presence so 
august, Ledgar felt just a twinge of shame and apprehen- 
sion. 

“And after the Sovereign,” went on Dr. Greig, ruling out 
his wife as a joke which must not be labored, “comes, of 
course, the Upper House. This consists of my staff. The boys 
themselves elect a House of Representatives, which we call 
the Council. They have a Prime Minister, a Cabinet, and 
an Opposition. The measures they pass are submitted to the 
Upper House, and afterwards are ratified by the Sovereign.” 

“But, sir — supposing ” 

“Well, Mr. Muttonboy?” 

“Supposing, sir, they was . . .” 

(Gawd help him! He’d said “was”!) 

“They was to elect a six months* holiday for themselves, 
sir. I should, if I was a boy!” 

“Ha, ha! Excellent, Mr. Muttonman, excellent!” He 
seemed to think this a joke worth improving on. “Or to mort- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 65 

gage the school buildings and spend the money at the tuck- 
shop! Ha, ha! Or to cut off their Sovereign’s head, like 
the Parliament of Charles the First! But these contingencies 
are provided for. We step in there. The Upper House could 
throw out any such measure, and the Sovereign has the right 
to veto . . . No, we find our system answers admirably, ad- 
mirably. It teaches the boys confidence; it teaches them the 
principles of government; it teaches them to speak and debate 
in public. And now. . . .” 

“One moment, sir.” Uncle Abinadab waxed very bold. 
The success of his joke inspired him with confidence. “About 
religion, now. It’s a ticklish subject. I’m a Baptist, I am. 
Ledgar’s father and mother are Baptists; I may go so far as 
to say that he’s a Baptist, although he has never made public 
confession !” 

“I am a Nonconformist myself, sir. The school is run 
on Nonconformist principles. We do not call it a Noncon- 
formist school. Church boys are admitted on equal terms 
with their Dissenting friends, so long as they behave them- 
selves. That’s sound, I think, sir. Neither Jew nor Greek — 
eh? Two of our masters belong to the Establishment, and 
take the Church boys to the Parish Church on Sundays; the 
majority go to Chapel. As for Catholics and Jews, if any 
presented themselves, that would be a matter for considera- 
tion. Likewise Unitarians. Atheists, emphatically NO!” 

“You reassure me, sir,” said Mr. Muttleboy. “What I 
meant was — I hope I’m not narrow-minded, but I don’t hold 
with all these new-fangled notions about monkeys being de- 
scended from men, and I don’t want the boy’s head stuffed 
with such nonsense. The old Book’s good enough for me. I 
don’t want him to learn that it’s all out of date and a pack 
of rubbishy fairy tales. It was good enough for my forebears, 
who fought and died for it; it was good enough for my 
father, and a better man never packed a parcel or wrote an 
invoice; it’s good enough for Me.” And he blew his nose 
very loudly, as if in defiance of all the Hanuman- worshipers, 


66 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

New Theologians, Date-manipulators, Evolutionists, and Rev- 
olutionists, ever created or evolved. 

“And it’s good enough for me, too, sir,” said Dr. Greig. 
“And now, perhaps, you would like to see over the grounds 
and buildings.” 

They entered a large dining-hall, in which a number of 
plaster casts and a one-eyed, somewhat mangey fox on one 
wall stared at several rubbings of bronze abbots and crusaders 
on another. Then came a hall with mortarboards, with green 
tassels, kept in position by pegs ; and after that the great school- 
room, supported by thin pillars, with sundry appropriate pic- 
tures and mottoes on the walls. Ledgar noticed the motto, 
“There is but a step between me and Death”; and prints 
of such elevating and inspiring subjects as Jezebel being eaten 
by dogs; Jephtha meeting his daughter; and Jael driving the 
nail into the temple of Sisera. A raised dais at one end sup- 
ported two curule chairs, with lids which opened and revealed 
to Ledgar’s awestruck gaze, a birch. 

They crossed a courtyard, and entered a number of tiny 
studies. Each had curtains, easy chairs, a small fireplace, and 
sundry pictures and books. But in one there was a rather 
disconcerting contretemps. 

“Good gracious me!” exclaimed Mr. Muttleboy, and “Good 
gracious me 1” Dr. Greig in a breath, as an indescribable odor, 
which seemed composed of sewage, farm, soap works, and 
Chinese egg factory, in equal proportions, assailed their nos- 
trils. The study window shot up; the boys in the courtyard 
had the edifying spectacle of their master and his guest ex- 
pectorating with great vigor and corresponding disgust. 
“What’s the meaning of this, Stokes?” asked Dr. Greig, 
severely. 

“Only — only an egg went addled, sir; and I’ve been skin- 
ning a stoat. I’m very sorry, sir!” 

“Sorry, sir? Report yourself to Mr. Jenkins for punish- 
ment. I’ll have no addled eggs or skinned stoats in my studies. 
And what’s that scratching? Open the locker, sir. ” It 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 67 

was opened with great reluctance. Rabbits in one compart- 
ment; papa, mamma, a whole family of tiny bunnies. Puppies 
in the next. 

A one-eyed owl in another. 

“So you think you’re sent to school in order to keep 
menageries, do you? Report yourself to Mr. Jenkins, and 
tell him with my compliments that I expect those animals all 
to be destroyed before lights-out.” 

“He’s as bad as Herod,” grumbled Stokes to sympathizers 
in the courtyard. “Jolly hard luck about those puppies. I’ve 
only just had their tails bitten off. Spent a day finding a 
man to do it, and the only chap who knew anything about 
the job was a stableman about seventy years old. Said he’s 
bitten off scores in his time, but his teeth had all worn out.” 

In the playing fields, some boys were engaged with a foot- 
ball, and here Uncle Abinadab distinguished himself. “Thank 
you, sir, thank you,” several boys cried out as the ball sped 
in their direction. Hitching up one trouser leg, Mr. Muttle- 
boy threw himself with such vigor upon the ball that it dis- 
appeared altogether, giving him the impression for a moment 
that he had sent it beyond the outpost elms. A gasp from 
Dr. Greig, who had been standing just behind him, and had 
received the ball on his uncovered head, disillusioned him as 
to his prowess. 

They took tea with the matron, a charming old German 
lady with snow-white hair. There were some fine old pic- 
tures in her rooms, a few portraits of German composers and 
authors, a signed photograph of her brother, who was Prime 
Minister to some cannibal island king, and a number of books 
in ornate bindings. 

One of the under-masters, a portly gentleman in a frock 
coat so tightly buttoned that it seemed he must be afraid 
of losing an expensive corporation if he left it free to its 
devices, had tea with them, and told several fishing stories. 
The school was named The Herons, from the fact that in 
distant times a heronry belonging to a neighboring abbey had 


68 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

existed in the grounds. The father of one of the boys had 
hotly disputed this story, on the ground that “everyone knew 
herrin’s were fresh-water fish.” 

After tea Ledgar said good-by to his uncle, who slipped 
five shillings into his hand as a parting gift. He was left alone 
to face a new and unfamiliar world. His spirits sank a little 
as he joined a group of boys round a blazing fire in the great 
schoolroom. 

The usual questions were put and answered. On a shelf 
near him, some schoolbooks were arranged; he took one up 
to examine it. 

“Put that down, please. It’s not yours, I think.” 

This did not look like the immediate ascendency he had 
hoped for. 

At eight o’clock, after brief prayers and a supper of bread 
and cheese, the boys trooped up to a long, bleak dormitory, 
with great, churchlike windows and a master’s cubicle at one 
end. He said his prayers, running through them as rapidly 
as possible, and with one eye open for possible boots — which 
did not come. “Wear flannel next thy skin.” It was the first 
commandment. But as he disrobed the sight of a red flannel 
chest protector carefully worked and lovingly presented by 
his mother brought boys flocking round the bed. 

“What on earth is that? I say, you fellows, come and 
look at the wolf in sheep’s clothing. . . . You’re never go- 
ing to wear that thing in bed? Against the rules, isn’t it, 
Arnold?” 

“Thou shalt not bully, nor fight the other boys.” Com- 
mandment number six. 

What was he to do? Off came the chest-protector; he 
crept into a lonely and miserable bed. 

But in his dreams he was away from London; far away 
from Dr. Greig, and the strange boys, and the bare, bleak 
dormitory with its rows of snow-white beds. 

He ran races half the night on summer sands, with Winnie 
Campion. 


CHAPTER VI 


EDGAR woke to a new day with mingled feelings. 



There had been frost during the night; a lacelike film 


^ ^ was on the windows. The great bell of the school ap- 

peared to be out of order; at half-past six a stocky little man 
with his nose turned up — enabling him to regard the whole 
race of boys with contempt, without effort on his part — 
opened the door softly, having previously removed his boots; 
entered and lit the gas; and then, creeping out again, closed 
the door and rang a kind of muffin bell very vigorously. Two 
or three slippers flung at the door showed the reason for his 
precautions. This was Mark, the school factotum, whose 
principal accomplishment was the art of wheedling coppers 
and small silver out of the pockets of the boys into his own. 
He was credited with having an enormous family, and with 
supplying from his surplus stock maidservants and boot-boys 
to the school, at a reduced figure. But Mark could also sing. 
At scratch concerts, Mark, with a foaming tankard of beer 
before him, singing “Down in the Valley Bylow,” or “Into 
the Joys of Death Rode the Six Hundred,” was a perennially 
popular figure. 

The school gardener, curiously enough named Matthew, 
was a less reputable person. There was nothing saintlike 
about him but his name. Most of his spare time and cash, 
when he was not engaged in following at the heels of the 
Head, or in the crude gardening in which he indulged, 
was spent in gymnastics and art. Not to put too fine a 
point upon it, Matthew lifted his elbow and colored his 
nose. 

Matthew also had an enormous family. Not so large in 
numbers, perhaps, as in the size of its individual members. At 
all events, he wrote a rambling illiterate letter once to the 


70 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

cricket captain, giving him information about some nets 
and announcing at the same time the birth of a baby; by an 
unaccountable mischance, the two were confused, and the 
school was highly interested to learn that Mrs. Matthew had 
given birth to an infant twenty-six feet long, nine feet deep, 
very stout, and freshly tarred. 

By this time the boys in the dormitory were beginning 
to rise and to flock into an adjoining lavatory, where they 
washed in ice-cold water in slate basins, and cleaned their 
teeth with the aid of earthenware mugs and, very often, 
bald and elderly toothbrushes. 

Ledgar had time to notice two or three of his neighbors. 
On his left slept a snuffling little boy with a chilblain on his 
nose; it was he who pointed out one of the bigger boys as 
a Nero who had once walked right round the balustrade at 
the head of the stairs — the slightest slip would have meant 
a strawberry jam tragedy on a stone floor fifty feet or so 
below. On the other side was a large rosy-cheeked boy who 
was fond of natural history, and, in their seasons, hatched 
silkworms under his arms. The head of the dormitory was 
a boy named Scott- Pye, who belonged (so he said) to a very 
distinguished family. The little snuffling boy, who was rather 
uncertain in his history, thought his mother had been lady- 
in-waiting or “somefing” to Queen Anne. Mark extorted a 
large income from Scott-Pye by persistently mutilating his 
name in the presence of smaller boys, unless bribed not to do 
so; and Ledgar was in considerable doubt for some time as 
to whether his name was Scott-Pye, Pye-Scott, Scott, or merely 
Pye. 

The muffin bell which had rung them out of bed seemed 
to ring incessantly throughout the day. It rang for prayers, 
for breakfast, for class after class, for dismissal, for dinner, 
for tea, for preparation, for prayers, for supper, and for bed. 
Ledgar started the day in profound and lonely misery, which 
deepened as the hours passed. A slight chill had set one of his 
teeth aching; it was bitterly cold in the stone corridors and 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 71 

classrooms; and homesickness made it difficult for him to keep 
back his tears. 

“Blinking owl !’’ said a boy who passed him, contemptuously. 

He might have retorted, like the Scotsman to a friend who 
asked him when he was seasick. “Are ye no feeling vera 
weel?” — “Mon, do ye think Ah’m doing this for fun?” In- 
stead, he retired to a quiet corner, and broke down altogether — 
getting his head cuffed by a boy who happened to discover 
his retreat. . . . He had not been four and twenty hours at 
the school ; and where now were his illusions ? 

The first class of the day was taken by the master who 
had had tea with them at the matron’s on the previous after- 
noon. Ledgar noticed that they had scarcely opened their 
books when the boys were nudging and making signs to one 
another; and at last one, bolder than the rest, observed “Please, 
Mr. Andrews, my father caught a forty-pound roach (the 
weight did not much matter) during the holidays.” “Never 
mind now, Jones, attend to your work,” said Mr. Andrews 
very sternly. But in a few minutes, having thus salved his 
conscience, he took up the subject: “Ah, what were you say- 
ing about your father, Jones? A nice little fish; a very nice 
little fish” it sounded as if he were paying a somewhat dubious 
compliment to Mr. Jones. “But when I was in Scotland . . 

With his hands deep in capacious pockets, Mr. Andrews 
gave himself up to the enjoyment of unrestrained narrative. 
It was astonishing how deep an interest these boys at The 
Herons seemed to take in fishing, and how ready they were 
to believe, with just the necessary amount of wonder and in- 
credulity, the stories with which they were regaled. 

A history class came next, conducted by a brisk young 
man who rattled out questions with the speed of a Maxim — 
and the precision. “Date of Malplaquet? — you” — pointing — 
“next — next — up four places — Leading statesmen of the 
period? — you, you, you.” He was down like a ton of bricks 
on any boy who was frivolous or made absurd answers. It 
was in his class, though on a later occasion, that a boy, read- 


72 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ing about the trial of the Seven Bishops, stated that to cele- 
brate their delight the people put seven candles in their win- 
dows, with a taller one (but he pronounced the word as if 
it were “tallow”) in the center to represent the Archbishop. 

And it was he who gave Ledgar one of the most awful wig- 
gings he ever had in his life, for asking, innocently, when Mr. 
Cobb had attributed the speed of animals to the way in which 
their hind legs were bent, and had remarked, casually, that 
Mr. Jenkins was a very fine runner, “Whether Mr. Jenkins’s 
hind legs could possibly be made in such a way ?” 

Before the day was over, Ledgar had made the acquaintance 
of most of the masters at The Herons. He was in the Upper 
Third, but the boys migrated from room to room at the ring- 
ing of the muffin bell. Thus, in one classroom he met Mr. 
Patrick, a young man who told the boys quite candidly that 
he need not be a schoolmaster unless he liked (though why 
he should have liked he did not trouble to explain), and that 
his ambition was “a short life and a merry one” — the merri- 
ment apparently consisting in reading nearly all night in bed, 
getting into trouble with the Head for playing chess on Sun- 
day, coming down late to breakfast, scamping his work as 
much as possible in class, and raising a plentiful crop of boils 
by too liberal indulgence in port wine. Mr. Stringer, on the 
other hand, was of a melancholy nature; on that first winter 
afternoon of Ledgar’s school life he gave them certain lines 
which always brought back, with a haunting sadness, that cold, 
bare room lit with the single gas jet, the white fields and paths 
and naked trees seen dimly through the window, and the not 
unpathetic figure of their master. 

Scepter and crown must tumble down. 

And in the dust be even made 

With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 73 

Mr. Stringer wrote poetry himself ; not very splendid poetry, 
but yet with a certain melancholy sweetness of its own. One 
about a certain heavenly garden w^here gentlemen who had 
missed connubial bliss were solaced with congenial partners 
was considered very fine by the boys. 

After all, Job, when another wife was substituted for his 
own, seemed quite satisfied with the exchange — and Job was 
a wise man. Ledgar fancied Mr. Stringer had some crime 
on his conscience; perhaps he might turn out to be a Eugene 
Aram; he gave the boys little sermons, and told them, among 
other things, that actions causing harm to other people were 
much more evil than actions causing harm only to oneself. 

The boys said that Mr. Stringer was in a decline, and that 
he had once been very suitably engaged to a consumptive 
young lady in the town, but she had been inconsiderate, though 
sensible, enough to die. 

On the second day of term, schoolroom and classrooms 
were placarded for the election. Enormous bills perplexed 
you by urging on you the rival merits of Smith, who wanted 
more footballs, and Brown, who was the poor-boy’s friend 
to the extent of clamoring for another Sunday egg. Tomkins’s 
specialty w^as an extension of bounds . . . School politics 
seemed somewhat limited in their scope. 

News sheets, cartoons printed by the graph, election 
addresses, meetings in every classroom, and in all quarters 
of the playground, were the order of the day. Intense ex- 
citement prevailed. Each form elected, according to seniority, 
one or two members. 

Ledgar, in full hope and intention of becoming a member 
of Council himself, attended the opening sitting. Everything 
was conducted with immense gravity, and on lines strictly 
parliamentary. There was a Speaker, whose ruling on every 
matter was the last word of law; a clerk with a wart on his 
nose, making him not unlike Oliver Cromwell; a very ener- 
getic young Prime Minister, who flourished sheaves of papers, 


74 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

and brought down the house with a magnificent peroration, 
the purport of which seemed to be, “Are we downhearted? 
NO!” But most because then and always until near the 
end he was at heart a rebel, Ledgar liked the leader of the 
Opposition, a fiery youth with flaming hair, who disagreed 
with everyone and everything, and was always jumping on his 
feet to “rise to order, sir.” He was up and down like a Jack- 
in-the-box; it was evident that nothing in the whole world, or 
out of it, could have stopped his “rising to order,” though no 
one knew who was ordering him to rise. 

Ledgar registered a secret vow that, one day, he would be 
leader of the Opposition. 

That “one day,” however, seemed as yet far distant. In 
the football field he was constantly getting in the way of 
the other boys, and was scarcely more successful with the ball 
than Uncle Muttleboy. 

And at night. . . . 

He never forgot, never forgave, that second night in the 
dormitory at The Herons. The first had passed without much 
incident; the boys fresh from home, tired with travel. But 
what he experienced now was a revelation to him. Alone, 
unprotected, hampered even by his training and the command- 
ments enforced on him with so much kindness, he found him- 
self at the mercy of a band of young barbarians, callous as 
Red Indians, cruel as Haytian negroes, unmoral as Kaffirs or 
Chinese. Sons of gentlemen only — boys whose character had 
to be above reproach at entrance — they were little devils, keen 
on the delight of torment as Parisian Apaches. 

It began when lights were out. 

His prayers (legitimate, down-on-knees prayers, not to 
them) did not save him; clutched suddenly and lifted from 
the ground by half a dozen arms, he was propelled violently 
on bare feet along bare boards, thrust into a long clothes- 
basket, rolled hither and thither amid screams of delight, tossed 
in a blanket — and released suddenly at the unexpected entry 
of a master, who reprimanded him for being away from his 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 75 

own bed. And, after lights-out, the dormitory became a hell 
on earth. All the newcomers, Ledgar among them, were or- 
dered out of bed — it was a bitter night — and lined up for the 
initiation ceremony which was to make them free of the noble 
company of The Herons. 

You have here the doctrine of the survival of the fit, and 
the elimination of the unfit. 

You have here the ordeals of blood and fire by which sav- 
age races are initiated into manhood. 

You have here the Baptismal service of his own people. 

The strong survive. Those who do not flinch from ridi- 
cule, from pain, survive and are strengthened. . . . The weak 
go down. 

Ledgar wondered afterwards why, when so much anxiety 
was displayed that he should join the Baptist church, some- 
one did not take the trouble to dispel the cobwebs and per- 
plexities in his brain by a plain, sane, straightforward state- 
ment. But in his own circle no one seemed to know. It was 
proper to he baptized. It was the correct thing; just as in 
the Beltinge family it was the correct thing to show people 
round the stables after breakfast. If you were not baptized, 
you stood a chance of being DAMNED. “But that’s silly,” 
was Ledgar’s natural rejoinder. 

“Out of sixteen hundred million people in the world, how 
many are baptized? -And how many then are lost? Next 
door to Uncle Muttleboy lives a rich Jew; you can hear the 
clatter of his plates through the partition wall while you are 
at dinner. He knows Hebrew. He knows the prophecies and 
the history of his people. He has heard over and over again 
the story of Jesus Christ. And he thinks him a village car- 
penter in revolt against the true and ancient faith; an im- 
postor, leading silly folk astray. Is he lost?” 

Why did not someone tell him, “The Jew is circumcised, 
the savage submits to cruel rites and the ridicule of the 
squaws, the Anglican is confirmed, the schoolboy is admitted 
to the society of his fellows on payment of the price in suffer- 


76 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

ing and shame — the Baptist submits to the indignity of the 
water and the ridicule — or what, if he is sensitive, he thinks 
the ridicule — of Baptist squaws and maidens. It is the law 
of the universe. Comply with it, you are made strong, and 
become a man. Refuse to comply, you are a rebel and an 
outcast; slave of each and all. It is the law. 

During part of the ceremony the boys were blindfold. 
They were asked humiliating questions, and made to answer; 
they were ridiculed and jeered at; they were thrashed with 
knotted towels; forced to drink nauseating mixtures; crowned 
with indignity. 

It appalled, disgusted, horrified, nauseated him. How cruel 
the world! He did not ask for birth. . . . He crept back to 
bed, shivering; sobbing with pain and rage. 

Barefooted, boys crept and pattered about the dormitory 
in darkness on evil errands. He hated them all. He hated 
the world. . . . 

And after that awful night he was rarely free from mo- 
lestation. Fagging at the school was promiscuous and not 
organized; boys were at the beck and call of everyone. In 
his nightshirt he was sent down flights of stone stairs, across 
an open quadrangle, to fetch a dozen pairs of boots; had to 
stand target for them on his return. In the middle of a bitter 
night the rosy-cheeked boy was hauled from bed and thrust 
into a bath of ice-cold water. And once, for no offense, the 
little snuffling boy was ordered out to pay the penalty of an 
imagined crime. 

“Grimston,” said a big boy in one of the neighboring beds, 
“you looked at me cheekily this afternoon in class.” 

“Oh, please, Sandall, I didn’t.” 

“Yes, you did. You looked at me cheekily; didn’t he, 
Porter?” 

“Of course you did, you little liar. You snuffled at him 
too. I saw you.” 

“Get out of bed.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 77 

*‘Oh, please, Sandall. . . 

“ARE you going to get out? Now go round the dormi- 
tory. Any boy who likes can have a whack at him.” 

With his nightshirt drawn tightly round him, Grimston 
went round the thirty beds. Any boy who cared thrashed 
him with open hand, clothes brush, any convenient weapon. 

“Do you want to have a whack at me, Dunstan?” 

“No.” 

He crept into bed and sobbed and snuffled himself to sleep. 

By day, things were little better. Any boy who chose could 
buffet, kick, molest him. In the evening a band of brigands 
haunted the empty classrooms, studies, and lonely corridors. 
Horrible instruments of torment were in their possession. 
Timid boys were afraid to venture beyond the great school- 
room. One boy was tied to a tree — stripped naked — and 
thrashed until, fainting and covered with blood, he was car- 
ried back. Once Ledgar himself was caught. He realized 
the helpless agony of the trapped beast. Nature again, red 
in tooth and claw, in the person of beings externally human. 
Oh, how he hated them. . . . They took him before a study 
fire; held him there, with trousers drawn tightly against his 
legs; kept him until great blisters had been raised, and let 
him go. “Thou shalt not fight.” Sixth commandment. He 
thought afterwards that he might with some effort have saved 
himself. . . . But he did not know how to fight. Why had 
they not taught him to fight? 

He was as helpless as a girl. A feeble push; arms revolv- 
ing impotently like windmills; that was the extent of his 
capacity. 

But Sunday, for the first time in his life, stood out as a 
red-letter day. When the boys lined up in their green-tasseled 
mortarboards for chapel, he stood in isolated misery, wonder- 
ing whether he must walk alone. For the others had all paired. 
And then, to his exquisite delight and almost equally great 
surprise, one of the bigger boys actually came up and asked 
for the pleasure of his company. He thought at first it was 


78 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

a joke. He thought there must be in the background some 
new scheme devised for his mortification; two or three of 
the boys seemed to be smiling. No. The offer was perfectly 
genuine. The boy spoke quite civilly; on the way down, was 
not merely polite but really pleasant. ... A conquest. He 
brimmed over with gratitude; his friend stood a head taller 
than himself. 

On the way home, he had a new companion. Mrs. Kremer, 
the matron, annexed him to carry back her great brown Ger- 
man Bible. A brief visit was paid to an old friend, a French 
Countess, living in reduced circumstances in the almshouses, 
which were evidently for the children of gentlefolk only. It 
was a delightful room, to which, notwithstanding winter, bowls 
of flowers gave some color; the latticed windows looked out 
over the lawn. And the Countess talked to him in pretty 
broken French-English; and the matron in pretty broken 
German-English, quite as if he were a human being. He had 
dinner with the matron. Roast fowl, two vegetables, apple tart 
and cream, cheese, coffee. Better than home. Better than 
Uncle Muttleboy’s. As good as Mrs. Beltinge^s. 

A letter was waiting for him when he came out again into 
the quadrangle. The monitor who gave it had kept it in 
his pocket when distributing the morning post, and had for- 
gotten it. From Winnie. All kinds of news, hosts of kind 
thoughts and wishes. Mr. Campion not very well lately; 
grandma found him very irritable and trying. Had a crotchet 
in his head that he was ruined in some mysterious way by 
the introduction of steam for navigation, an old grievance 
with him. Last Sunday at dinner they had quite a time with 
him. Kept banging the table, using shocking language about 
these (Winnie left an expressive blank) tin-kettle ships; 
grandma had to say at last, “Do you want me to leave the 
table ?’^ “I don’t want you to take it away with you, my 
dear.” He finished off with distant thunder. Winnie thought 
he was becoming senile. But she spelt it with two n’s, as if 
it were related to an aperient medicine. He had a grievance. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 79 

too, against the Hittites, Hivites, and other Ites, which she 
could not understand. . . . Mr. Mould had died from a chill 
caught at a funeral (“What a funny thing for him to do!”). 
Grand funeral; Winnie was there. Oak coffin, with silver 
fittings. Mrs. Masterman’s little boy said to his mother the 
next day, “Mamma, how busy God must be today!” “Why, 
my dear?” “He’ll be so busy unpacking Mr. Mould.” Mr. 
Dunstan had been elected senior deacon; everyone was very 
glad, except Mawby, and he was furious. . . . “Yours affec- 
tionately, Winnie.” 

A happy, chatty letter, if Winnie’s spelling was a little 
weak. 

Gilchrist, his new friend, and he raced home from chapel 
through a biting wind that caught his chest like a knife, and 
landed him gasping but red-cheeked. The great churchlike 
windows of the dormitory gleamed through the darkness. He 
saw them unconcerned. 

Ledgar went to bed almost happy. 


CHAPTER VII 


G ilchrist, Ledgar’s new and first friend at The 
Herons, was a tall, thin boy, with pimples and large 
red hands. He seemed to have been constructed on 
the model of one of Euclid’s propositions, with a good many 
angles, but he was fairly strong, and fairly active — when he 
chose to put the latter quality into play. The speed with 
which he would race across playground or quadrangle with 
a mob of other boys at his heels would certainly have won 
the quarter-mile easily, if exhibited at the annual sports. But 
he pleaded delicate health as a reason for abstention from 
games and a retired life spent mostly, during winter, by class- 
room fires. He told Ledgar with great glee how he had once 
got the better of Dr. Greig by this reputation for enjoying 
ill health. “ ‘You place me in a quandary, Gilchrist,’ the 
Doctor had said. ‘I am compelled to punish you, but owing 
to the state of your health I feel unable to inflict corporal 
chastisement. Now you know the central teaching of the faith 
which is preached to you every Sunday, and which I try 
humbly to follow. We sinned, and someone suffered in our 
stead. When you grow older, you will be told by free- 
thinkers that this is illogical and unethical. Do not believe 
it. All humanity is linked together. The sin of one man 
affects every man ; the suffering of one man lifts up his fellow- 
man. ... I intend to take your punishment. Here is the 
cane. You will give me a dozen strokes.’ 

“‘You really mean it, sir?’ I said, very meekly. 

“I could hardly believe it at first. But you know he’s 
got no ends of fads. 

“ ‘Yes, I really mean it.’ He lifted up his frock coat tails, 
and put himself across the form. Well, you know what they 
used to call Pitt. . . . The Doctor isn’t a Pitt. 


8o 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 8i 

“ ‘Very well, sir,’ I said, because I’d several old scores to 
wipe off, and he’d bullyragged me in class a good deal. ‘Now 
you’d better pray for patience under your sufferings and a 
happy issue out of all your afflictions, because I’m going to 
give you beans,' And you bet I did.” 

Gilchrist was scarcely a desirable companion, but Ledgar 
was sufficiently miserable and lonely to be glad even of his 
conversation. And in one respect he stood him in good stead. 
He had a small following of little boys — the snuffler chief 
among them — and with their aid secured Ledgar’s election, at 
the beginning of the spring term, to the Council. 

In the course of time he became a very able second to the 
leader of the Opposition, and received the compliment of 
being called “a Rupert of Debate,” by one of the assistant 
masters. In his third term he engineered a coup d’ etat by 
barricading the Council room, and then filling it with noxious 
gases generated in the adjoining laboratory. The result was 
a Coalition, of which he became an active member, receiving 
his portfolio as Minister for the Museum. This was a small 
collection cased in the dining-hall, and containing birds’ eggs, 
part of a mummy cat, an attenuated hawk, a stuffed rabbit 
with five legs, and two hairs plucked by an enterprising boy 
from Jumbo’s tail. He succeeded in neglecting his duties so 
assiduously that a vote of censure was passed in his exclusive 
honor, which, being reported to his Sovereign, led to his re- 
tirement from public life. 

On his own account, however, Ledgar formed a small 
natural-history collection. He and Gilchrist spent their Sat- 
urdays in exploring neighboring chalk pits for fossils; caught 
moths and butterflies in the plantation; and discovered birds’ 
eggs in plantations and the thatched roofs of ancient cot- 
tages. He acquired, by exchange, a valuable collection of old 
coins, the authenticity of some of which was challenged, since 
one, at least, bore the date 55 B.C. He refused on this 
account a dirt-cheap offer, from the same source, of a letter 
from Charles the First to Cromwell, imploring him not to 


82 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

cut his head off; and a declined-with-thanks circular addressed 
to Mr. William Shakespeare, with notes in that celebrity’s own 
writing. 

In the second winter Ledgar took part in a Cromwell play 
written by Dr. Greig himself. It was attended by all the 
local notables, and was a brilliant success. There was an 
unfortunate little episode connected with Dunstan’s first ap- 
pearance. Sir Harry Vane, who held the stage, should have 
been interrupted by a stern and stertorous “Has rumor lied. 
Sir Harry? Didst thou not support the General?” in the 
midst of a denunciation of rumor as a lying jade. But Ledgar 
could not find a sword. The other boys had swords. Why 
not he? He refused to go up without a sword. And, up 
above. Sir Harry was energetically declaiming: 

“Rumor lies, as rumor ever did and ever will.” 

As no interruption came, he commenced again — “Rumor 
lies . . .” 

He tried a third time, reflectively, as if soliloquizing on the 
folly of Rumor in not confining herself strictly to the truth. 

The audience showed signs of weariness at hearing so often 
that Rumor had told fibs, and of not caring a small Indian 
coin if she did. Enter Ledgar as St. John ', stumbling over a 
trailing sword. 

“Has Rumor lied. Sir Harry? Didst thou not support the 
General ?” 

“You silly fool, you’ve spoilt the whole blooming show,” 
hissed Sir Harry between his lines. 

Ledgar had not spoilt the show; indeed, his performance 
was the feature of the evening. He was a good actor, a good 
speaker. He could write, as was shown by certain essays, 
one of which took the annual prize. He received this on 
Speech Day, and the manner of its reception was a little em- 
barrassing. The lady who presented it read from each vol- 
ume, before handing it to the recipient, a motto selected and 
written by Dr. Greig. When Ledgar appeared she addressed 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 83 

him sternly with the admonition, “Neither go back, nor stand 
still, but go forward.” 

He did not want to go back. He was not to stand still. 
Yet if he went forward, how was he to take the prize from 
those fair hands when they were ready to deliver it? . . . 

Interminable as the months seemed, all school roads lead 
ultimately to the station. Spring term, summer term, winter 
term passed. He spent his summer holidays at Came Bay; 
old Mr. Campion had died of his Hivites and his Hittites, 
and his widow reigned at the bathing place in his stead. And 
his widow did that which was good in the sight of the Lord; 
at least she was very good to Ledgar and to Winnie, giving 
them still the use of their old boat, and filling glorious picnic 
baskets when they went off to the woods or to the ruins of 
Saltgate Abbey. He went, of course, to Beltinge; Gordon 
had gone to Eton, Uncle Charles’s old school. Mrs. Beltinge’s 
nose had resumed its usual color and looked very distinguished. 
Mary was being educated in France. In a prim but charming 
little letter, written in charming French, she sent Ledgar her 
best wishes; and he wrote back a letter to Mademoiselle 
Beltinge. 

During the term that followed, Mr. and Mrs. Muttleboy 
paid a visit to the school. She appeared in a magnificent 
plum-colored dress, which returned somewhat the worse for 
wear in consequence of her sitting inadvertently on a tin of 
newly-made toffee while engaged in questioning a boy about 
his parentage and accomplishments. A nice boy, but shy, he 
was far too much appalled by the impending catastrophe to 
warn her. Uncle Muttleboy did the generous thing to Led- 
gar and others at the tuck shop. 

There was skating in winter — but Ledgar could only skate 
on one leg — cricket in summer — and here, too, he was a fail- 
ure. He was no good at games. He carried the matron’s 
Bible regularly to chapel now, and was frequently rewarded 
by invitations to dinner or to tea. Another of his friends 
was the spectacled little needle-woman, Mrs. Summers, who 


84 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

had been in the service of a bishop, and retained something 
episcopal in her deportment and conversation. It was she who 
looked after the boys^ wardrobes, and dispensed medicines. 
There was a regular routine for this. “Boys with colds, 
hands up!” Shaking of bottle, and administration of draught. 
“Boys with chilblains!” Shaking of bottle, rubbing on of 
liniment. “Boys with disordered stomachs!” This left spe- 
cial cases, of boys with peculiar ailments like ataxic paranoia, 
pediculosis, cholilythiasis, housemaid’s knee or miner’s elbow, 
who stood apart for separate treatment. 

Now and then there were dormitory concerts; occasionally, 
study suppers, when the fragments that remained were dis- 
tributed to the less fortunate juniors. In his last term Mr. 
Muttleboy arranged that Ledgar should have a study. This 
almost led to a breach with Gilchrist, who, not being able 
to afford a study of his own, frequently visited Ledgar’s in 
order to share moorhens’ eggs and other delicacies of the 
season. 

One night, like Hans Breitmann, Ledgar gave a “barty.” 
A postal order had been sent by Uncle Abinadab; Gilchrist 
himself accompanied Ledgar to Mrs. Avery’s to exchange it 
for comestibles, and was looking forward to a pleasurable 
evening. To his chagrin, when the invitations were sent round, 
he found that he had been omitted. Other boys had received 
graphed forms — he, none. Pride would not allow him to men- 
tion the matter, but he was bitterly disappointed, and contrived 
a neat revenge. 

Ink, castor oil, glue, chilblain liniment, decayed birds’ eggs, 
and jalap may be innocuous; they do not form a pleasing 
mixture. Armed with a flask of this, Gilchrist crept shortly 
before the banquet into Dunstan’s study, and emptied the con- 
tents into a saucepan simmering on the fire. “That’ll teach 
’em to enjoy themselves and not ask me!” he reflected with 
gloomy satisfaction, creeping down the stairs again — to en- 
counter Ledgar, who found him just the chap he was looking 
for. Would he come to the study party? 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 85 

It was impossible to refuse, but Gilchrist paid dearly for 
his enterprise. There was no banquet like it known in all 
the records of The Herons. Steaming dish followed steam- 
ing dish — but not one could Gilchrist be induced to tackle. 
“He had a slight headache.” “What’s that? Ah, he was 
sorry ; it never did agree with him.” Not a sociable guest. . . . 
He was ravenously hungry. At least he would have the sat- 
isfaction of seeing them before long rolling in torment, ter- 
rified at the thought of impending dissolution. He watched 
their faces with absorbed interest. Not a sign. Not a shud- 
der. They were enjoying themselves hugely. 

And then Ledgar disclosed the secret. He was afraid Gilly 
had not enjoyed his evening very much. Hoped he wasn’t 
huffed at not being asked before. Fact was, the graph on 
which the second batch of invitations was printed had gone 
wrong while it was being reboiled. Unaccountable; it “smelled 
and stinked horrible,” to quote a famous continental guide, 
and they were obliged to throw it away. 

Some of the unpopularity which attached to Gilchrist fell, 
naturally enough, to Ledgar Dunstan. At first they were 
always dodging and hiding together in classrooms, out of the 
way of other boys. Ledgar’s favorite retreat was the library, 
where he spent many of his happiest hours reading Scott, 
Dickens, Lever, and the standard writers. 

But by and by he summoned up sufficient courage to emerge 
from his retirement and mix with other boys. To the last 
he was not very popular; not very happy. 

He rose to the sixth, more by luck than by good manage- 
ment, and became a monitor. An unfortunate encounter with 
the “boiled master” — the young gentleman with boils who 
believed in a short and merry life — led to his degradation. 
In preparation one evening, Ledgar employed his time in mak- 
ing grimaces at this master from what he thought a compara- 
tively safe distance. It was an old habit with him, almost 
unconscious. “Thou shalt not squeeze thyself nor make 
grimaces,” reads the fourth commandment. 


86 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

And he did. 

Mr. Patrick said nothing; but when Ledgar went upstairs 
to have some chilblains dressed, he lay in wait on the first 
landing. “Go downstairs; you’re breaking the rules in com- 
ing up without permission. And you have your boots on.” 

“I come up every evening,” retorted Ledgar. 

Mr. Patrick boxed his ears. 

All the devil in the boy flared out. He could not use his 
fists; his tongue, though a little member, he could always 
use. 

He used it. 

Mr. Patrick, storming, followed him to the dormitory. 
Now there is a hymn which, possibly with some such situa- 
tion as this in mind, speaks of the security afforded by being 
on your knees in time of danger. Ledgar knelt down vir- 
tuously, and, a trifle nervously, went through all the prayers 
he knew at unconscionable length. It was a mean thing to 
do, said some boys; a shocking thing in any case for a master 
to interrupt devotions, thought others. Mr. Patrick cared 
not a snap of the fingers. 

Standing over Ledgar, he called him a miserable young 
hypocrite, and threatened him with a sound horse-whipping. 
He also intended to report the matter to Dr. Greig — which 
he did next day. From his desk at prayers Dr. Greig always 
administered necessary reproofs and adrnonitions. A boy, he 
understood — a boy in one of the senior forms — had been guilty 
the night before of very scandalous behavior. He had grossly 
insulted and openly defied one of the masters. Such conduct 
could not be overlooked. He called upon Dunstan to apolo- 
gize to Mr. Patrick. The fifteenth chapter of St. Mark’s 
Gospel ! 

It was the general opinion that Ledgar, who seemed for 
the moment almost a popular character, had escaped lightly. 
He might have been put in the book, which meant stoppage 
of leave for any period up to the end of term. He might 
have been given lines. He might have been punished by 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 87 

mournful numbers — otherwise by having to do sums. Or he 
might even have been birched. 

Ledgar seemed to share the general impression, and ex- 
pressed his opinion of the inadequacy of his punishment by 
refusing flatly to apologize. He did not do so in actual words. 
He simply shut his mouth and treated Mr. Patrick as if he 
did not exist. 

A few days later, Dr. Greig held his General Information 
Class. He and Mrs. Greig, the matron and the masters sal; 
at a raised dais with books ranged in front of them, prepared 
to answer any question the boys cared to ask. If you wanted 
to know the best way to make toffee or to fold your trousers, 
the matron could tell you. 

If you wanted to know the name of the lady Cain married, 
and whose family she belonged to; what actual words Henry 
the Eighth used in proposing to each of his six wives; and 
why it was Cleopatra who had the Needle, Mrs. Greig could 
(possibly) tell you. 

If you wanted to know anything about Wales, you asked 
Mr. Jenkins. He could tell you anything from the way to 
boil a leek to the name of the illustrious Welsh bard who 
flourished “just about the time when Adam was born.” 

For Ireland, of course, Mr. Patrick. 

For theology, politics, classics, ancient and medieval his- 
tory, Dr. Greig. No question, however ridiculous, was 
laughed at. If it could not be answered, it at least gave rise 
to an interesting little discourse on allied topics. In this way 
the boys acquired a great deal of useful information. 

Ledgar, with brazen effrontery considering his disgrace, pro- 
pounded the question, “Is it a fact that Lady Jane Grey kept 
guinea-pigs?” 

Of course, no one really knew. It was an open question. 
Probably, if she did not keep guinea-pigs, she kept white mice. 
Henry the Eighth was known to have had a tame bullfinch. 
Many of the nobility in that period — and so forth. 

That was the general way of answering a poser. As some 


88 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

of the boys said, if you did not know, you “gassed.” Dr. 
Greig “gassed” splendidly. 

Then would, of course, have come a short monologue on 
the life and reign of Lady Jane by the doctor; followed by 
Mr. Andrews on guinea-pigs — guinea-pigs being considered a 
kind of fish. 

Dr. Greig, clearing his throat, commenced his answer in 
the orthodox way. It was a curious and interesting question 
which had just been propounded. He could not help won- 
dering what had prompted the boy to associate Lady Jane 
Grey, the unhappy nine-day Queen, with guinea-pigs. It was 
difficult to say with certainty — history seemed to be silent on 
the subject — “Oh, it’s you, Dunstan!” The voice changed 
to extreme severity. “Come up to the platform.” 

If Dr. Greig meant to push him off the platform again im- 
mediately, it seemed a little superfluous to call him up. But 
this appeared to be his intention. 

“I hear you have not yet apologized to Mr. Patrick.” 

“No, sir,” said Ledgar sulkily. 

“And you have the impertinence to ask me whether Lady 
Jane Grey kept guinea-pigs! You, the son of Christian 
parents.” 

Ledgar did not dare to reply, “Of a gentleman only.” In- 
deed, before he could have framed such a retort Dr. Greig, 
with a sweep of an arm banded with village-blacksmith mus- 
cles, hurled him from the platform; followed him down the 
schoolroom ; caught him up in the hall ; seized him by the scruff 
of his neck; shot him across the dining-hall, and brought him 
back gasping to the schoolroom. 

If there had been any breath left, Ledgar might have said 
then, “You, the son of Christian parents!” The sons of 
Christian parents really seemed to have tempers like other 
sons, and to show just as much irritation when they were 
annoyed. 

“Are you going to apologize to Mr. Patrick?” 

“I can’t, sir.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 89 

*‘Are you going to apologize?” The Doctor was getting 
red. He was not used to being openly defied. “Yes or no?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Very well. I shall know how to act. Unless you 
apologize, I shall degrade you from your position as moni- 
tor.” 

Ledgar’s blood was up. All the rebel in him was in arms. 
The boys were watching, open-eyed. 

“He hit me first, sir. He bullied me, too, while I was 
saying my prayers. I can’t.” 

“Cornell” (to the captain of the school), “delete Dunstan’s 
name from the list of monitors. You, sir, will come to me 
after call-over, when I shall have decided what further steps 
to take.” 

An hour later he entered the study. Dr. Greig was writ- 
ing. “Ah, sit down.” In a couple of minutes his chair re- 
volved. He stroked the birch pensively. “Really, Dunstan,” 
he said, “I am afraid I shall have to take extreme measures. 
I am afraid you will force me to take them. The whole fabric 
of authority and discipline in the school seems to rest on your 
attitude. Much to my regret, I shall be compelled to use the 
birch; and to ask your parents to withdraw you from the 
school.” 

Ledgar had some thought of asking whether the case could 
not be met by Dr. Greig himself submitting to the birch. It 
would be some satisfaction, at least, to tell him how much 
more it hurt the giver than the recipient. On second thoughts 
he refrained. He checked also an impulse to call Dr. Greig 
a devil. 

But it was that business with his father once again. Cruelty 
personified! Personified relentless force! There was the uni- 
verse — personified cruelty, cruelty impersonal. First Mr. 
Dunstan. Then the elements. Then the boys. Now Dr. 
Greig . . . All against him. All his enemies. He had said 
he would not apologize. Mr. Patrick had struck him, had 
bullied him; he would not beg his pardon. 


90 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

And if he did not — the birch and expulsion. Ah, if Dr. 
Greig laid hands on him — and he could; all the forces of the 
school, boys, masters, servants, all that organized community 
and its resources were ready, if need be, to carry out the sen- 
tence. But Ledgar bit his lips, and determined that he would 
leave marks on someone before the sentence was carried out. 

The Doctor looked at him for a few minutes in silence, 
while the boy stood sulky. At last he laid his hand on his 
shoulder. “Look here, my boy,’* he said kindly, “why be 
foolish? You know that in the first instance you were in the 
wrong. Mr. Patrick will be only too glad to shake hands 
and let the matter drop. What is the use of forcing me to 
birch you and expel you? You jeopardize your career; you 
inflict quite unnecessary distress upon your friends. Just think 
it over for a minute. See if you don’t think mine the more 
sensible course to take.” 

Dr. Greig took up a book and waited. 

“I — I suppose you’re right, sir. It doesn’t seem much good 
my fighting everyone. I’ll — I’ll apologize.” 

Something in him, which had been sinking down with each 
obstinate and sulky refusal, rose again like the mercury in 
a thermometer. He could not understand it; yet there it 
was. 

“Good, good. That’s a wise decision. Now we’ll say no 
more about it. Come to tea with me this afternoon — and by 
the way, have you written anything lately?” 

“Only the story of the elephant and the tailor, sir. Mr. 
Jenkins told us to amplify it and make a short story of it.” 

“Well, bring it with you, and I’ll look over it.” 

He put a few finishing touches to the story, and did some 
of his homework for the next day. He had not felt such 
buoyancy for a week; it seemed as if now the universe were 
on his side. 

He learned a couple of pages of dates; everything at The 
Herons was done on an original plan calculated to make 
learning interesting as well as easy. History, for instance. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 91 

was simplified by the dates of important events being trans- 
lated into sentences. Each figure had corresponding letters; 
I was B, H or M; 2 both C and R; 5 E or T, and so on. 
Then if you committed to heart the sentence, ‘Teware of 
treacherous fried fish,” you knew at once the date of King 
Henry the Second’s death ; “How ^doth the egg balance” gave 
you the discovery of America; “Merry Kate tries Rome” 
meant that Katherine of Arragon had appealed against her 
divorce (Merry Kate being simply an ingenious appellation 
rendered necessary by the lettering). 

Well, he finished his dates, and went in again to Dr. Greig’s, 
where with Dr. Greig, Mrs. Greig, and all the little Greigs, 
he had tea. And after tea the doctor looked over his story 
and pronounced it good — only the magnificent plum-colored 
dress worn by the tailor’s wife (a reminiscence of Mrs. Mut- 
tleboy) ought to have been introduced again, and should 
certainly have been spoilt by the elephant. Otherwise, why 
introduce it? 

It was Ledgar’s first lesson in the art of the short story. 

“And now, Dunstan, I suppose your school life is likely 
to finish with this term — what do you propose to make of your 
life?” 

“I think I should like to be a writer, sir.” 

“Good; very good. You have certain gifts.” 

“I don’t know, sir. I like writing and somehow I seem 
to — see things. I can’t explain exactly what I mean. Only, 
if a boy tells me something that has happened, I can see it 
happening; what the people wear, what they look like, what 
sort of room they are in, and all that.” 

“The gift of visualization. Good. Well now, if you mean 
to be a writer I think you should go to Cambridge . . . 
Come and look at my roses.” 

The doctor took him by the arm and led him through 
French doors into his garden. They stopped to examine the 
meteorological instruments on the lawn, and then passed down 
the path between the roses. 


92 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“You could stay on here another year. If there is any 
difficulty about expense, I could no doubt be of some assist- 
ance. Think it over.” 

But Ledgar did not want to stay another year at school. 
He did not want to go to Cambridge. It seemed to him only 
another and larger school, where there were more restrictions, 
more rules, more bullying and cruelty. He wanted to be 
free. 

He wanted to give up his time to writing; or, if that were 
impossible, to go into the City, where he could be his own 
master. 

“Well, of course, if you feel like that. I don’t want to 
influence your decision. At the same time, Dunstan, I think 
you are making a mistake which you will regret later in your 
life.” 

Ledgar rose early on the morning of his last Speech Day 
and went for a solitary walk between the cornfields. 

On his way back he passed through the cattle market, and 
joined three or four early-risers who were having a dip in 
the weed-grown river. 

Mr. and Mrs. Muttleboy came down by the mid-morning 
train, and he met them at the station, and paid his last visit 
to Mrs. Avery’s tuck shop. Gilchrist and the snuffler were 
his guests. 

The school-hall was decorated with palms and evergreens, 
which made Jezebel and “There is but a step” look quite 
inviting. A local celebrity made a speech to the boys, the 
chief point of which seemed to be that he had been a boy 
himself and that the greatest sin one could commit was not 
to be “respectable.” His wife, in white kid gloves, gave away 
the prizes. 

With his traveling rug over his arm (the large and small 
box having gone ahead of him by the school omnibus), Ledgar 
passed for the last time down the drive. The scent of roses 
came to him on the summer air. Rooks circled round the 
elms on the confines of the grounds; two or three small boys 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 93 

were hunting for invisible moths in the plantation. For the 
last time he had seen the great dormitory windows lit up on 
winter nights; the flicker of lanterns in the plantation; the 
bats fluttering against study windows in summer dusk . . . 
A town boy with whom he had made friends pressed on him 
some birds’ eggs as a parting gift. He had not made many 
friends. And he was not sorry he was going. Not very 
sorry. Not sorry that never more would he cross the quad- 
rangle at night under the stars, lost 

. . . m thought about himself, and the whole earth. 

Of man the wonderful, and of the stars. 

Because Life itself now lay before him. 


CHAPTER VIII 


L EDGAR spent a week or two at the Crescent while 
Uncle Abinadab, in correspondence with his father, 
arranged certain matters connected with his future. 
He was to enter an insurance office, which would give him 
ample time after work for literary pursuits. In the mean- 
time, Mr. Muttleboy broached tentatively the subject of bap- 
tism. Ledgar did not absolutely refuse; he indicated pretty 
clearly, in vulgar phrase, that he was “not taking any.” He 
had no particular objection to joining the Church of Eng- 
land; that was respectable. He did not mind joining the 
Church of Rome; that was picturesque. He was quite ready 
to go through any initiatory service essential to his becoming 
an agnostic or an atheist; that was intellectual. But Baptist? 
No, thank you! There was a certain punishment at school 
known as running the gauntlet; a new boy was given the 
choice between telling a tale, singing a song, having a moth- 
ers’ meeting held on him (which meant a dozen boys jumping 
up and down on him as he lay in bed), or running the gauntlet. 
You had to race up and down between two lines of boys 
armed with knotted towels, slippers, brushes, and other 
weapons. 

Being baptized seemed not unlike running the gauntlet, to 
his imagination. So many people, young women especially, 
would be assailing you with impertinent eyes, regarding you 
as a penitent sinner, noting the way you faced the ordeal, 
reconstructing your previous interview with the minister, wait- 
ing to shake you by the hand after the ceremony. 

It was not respectable, not picturesque, not intellectual. 

No, thank you. 

Ledgar, as a concession, agreed, one afternoon when Mr, 


94 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 95 

Muttleboy had a cold, to take a class in Sunday school, the 
original teacher being promoted to Mr. Muttlcboy’s own Bible 
Class. He went with some misgivings, taking care previously 
to put in his pocket some of the choicest specimens from his 
museum in order to attract the interest of his class. 

This consisted of about a dozen boys, many of them un- 
washed; most of them noisy and unruly. Mr. Gibbons had 
thoughtfully supplied him with a photograph, just taken, of 
a boy belonging to the Sunday school who had absented him- 
self two or three Sundays previously in order to bathe in 
the canal, and had very properly been drowned in conse- 
quence. He lay in his cofhn among frills and flowers, looking 
extremely dank and justifiably unhappy. The boys passed 
it from hand to hand with evident delight, and Ledgar felt 
that he had made a good impression. The reading was also 
a simple matter. You started the first boy at the proper 
passage; the others continued in rotation. It went some- 
what as follows: 

First Boy. *‘The flesh also in which, even in the skin 
thereof, was a bile and is healed” (squeaked in pearl or 
diamond). 

Second Boy. “And in the plice of the bile there be a white 
rising, or a bright spot, white, and somewhat reddish, and it 
be s-h-e she-wed to the priest!” (roared in large pica). 

Third Boy. “Andifwhenthepriestseethitbeold it BE insight- 
lower than the skinandthe yare thereofbeturnedwhitethepriest- 
shall pup-pup-PROWNCEhimuncleanitlSaplague of 1-e, le, 
le-pup, pup, prosy broke outothebile” (gabbled in italics). 

This was quite easy. Once set going, they worked like 
gramophones. Or like the polyphone in the hall at Beltinge. 

You put a text into their ears as you put a penny in a slot; 
Genesis, So-and-so ; Exodus, So-and-so — like that — and the 
thing was done. They ran down automatically at the end of 
the lesson. 

But after the lesson came the difficulties. The subject, you 


96 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

see, was leprosy, its detection and its cure. An attractive and 
simple subject. The lessons to be drawn from it were so 
obvious. 

But in Ledgar it awakened no enthusiasm. 

Dr. Greig, in the General Information Class, could have 
made something of it. He would have traced the history of 
the disease from the earliest times. He would have passed 
the subject over for a few minutes to Mr. Andrews, so that 
they might hear his views on Hutchinson’s fish-eating theories ,* 
what particular fish-eating countries it was prevalent in; what 
kind of fish caused it, and possibly the exact poundage of the 
guiltiest sort of fish. This finished, Mr. Andrews would throw 
leprosy back to Dr. Greig. 

You would be told, then, about the treatment of leprosy 
in medieval France; how the cross was raised at the door 
of the victim; how priest and acolytes, singing the service for 
the dead, escorted him in his grave-clothes (followed by his 
weeping wife and relatives) to a hut on some lonely heath; 
how he was left there, with the wooden cross at the door, with 
food, bowl, hood, clappers, to remain a pariah and an outcast 
until death. And how sometimes, unable to bear her widow- 
hood with the lad of her early love, the father of her chil- 
dren, solitary in his living grave, his wife would creep out 
under the flaming sunset sky, leaving town, church, friends — 
all she had — and share his lonely agony and death. 

(It is a cruel world.) 

You would have heard of famous lepers; Naaman, medie- 
val kings, even a great nobleman of modern days. You 
would have been told of Molokai, and Father Damien, and 
Stevenson. 

A simple and attractive subject. 

Ledgar cleared his throat and commenced. Aunt Eliza 
had recently been pecked by her canary, and had had awful 
visions of herself in horse-collar or Malay-kriss attitudes, 
writhing in the agonies of some avian variety of hydrophobia. 
Ledgar translated Aunt Eliza, in order to make her more 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 97 

attractive, into a little girl. *‘Gee-yurl” he called her, almost 
unconsciously; curates did that! 

No one laughed. No one seemed at all amused. One little 
boy even remarked to his neighbor that this new bloke seemed 
a damned sight sillier even than the other was. 

Encouraged by this compliment, Ledgar skirmished over 
various horrible diseases on his way to leprosy. Something 
must be done to spin the time out. When he reached leprosy, 
he did not know what would happen; he knew so little about 
it. He described briefly some of the awful ailments which 
afflict the human race. Consumption, cancer, typhus, small- 
pox, yellow jack, the black death. (A cruel world!) 

His description of open chilblains in which proud flesh had 
formed awakened some gleam of interest. A boy insisted 
on rolling up his trouser leg, unbinding some layers of gory 
bandages, in order to exhibit a wound on his leg. 

“Yes, yes. Well, then we have — ” He came to boils, 
a congenial topic, and an easy stepping-stone from which to 
alight on leprosy. Leprosy. Now what can you boys tell 
me about leprosy?” 

Dead silence. Then a squeaky voice, “Please, sir. Tommy 
Blake’s sticking pins in my bad leg.” 

Ledgar happened to know that leprosy was supposed to 
be caused sometimes by eating putrescent fish. Whereupon 
up went the trouser leg, off went the gory bandages again, 
“Please, sir, could this be leprosy, sir? ’Cause I ’ad ’arf a 
kipper for breakfast last week.” Chorus of approving 
laughter. 

“No, no . . . Leprosy, of course, taken in another sense, 
means sin. If you have it, you show yourself to the priest — 
that means the teacher, or the minister. . . .” 

“Please, sir. I’ve got it.” 

Not leprosy, but a flea which he was capturing under vigor- 
ous protests from the person of another boy. 

It was quite hopeless. He tried the curiosities, though it 
is difficult to work a piece of Egyptian mummy cloth, a clay 


98 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

model of an Indian bawarchi (cook) with his oven, a Jap- 
anese folding picture, and a glass bead from the Lord Mayor’s 
state coach, into leprosy. He wished he had brought his half- 
inch of the rope that hanged Charles Peace, as more suitable 
to the subject. Two or three of the boys had started a small 
manufactory of bent pins for the molestation of their neigh- 
bors; another was shooting paper pellets into an adjoining 
class. One boy was busily mimicking every gesture of the 
superintendent, who from time to time rang his bell with great 
vigor, but quite vainly, for order. Others indulged in cat- 
calls, squeaks, grunts, groans, and whistles. Ledgar’s only 
consolation lay in the fact that his class seemed no worse than 
any of the others. 

“Look here,” he said at last, “I think we’ve heard enough 
about lepers. The moral is, don’t be a leper. Now I’ll tell 
you a story.” 

“No blooming moral, though, guv-nor,” stipulated one boy 
suspiciously. 

The story was, fairly successful; but it was the last occa- 
sion on which Ledgar Dunstan ever taught in a 

Sunday School, 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
{Like truant rogues^ the devil or the fool! 

He went, instead, on Sunday afternoons to a neighboring 
common, where heated debates were held on political, social, 
and religious topics. One gentleman, with a taste for severe 
exercise (possibly prescribed by his doctor), regularly stood 
up to discourse of spiritualism, and was as regularly chased 
off the common. 

Having led at a brisk pace those who disapproved of any- 
one who materialized spirits in his drawing-room and stuck 
pins in them, to the edge of the pond, he would double back 
at a sharp pace, bolt from the common, and lose his pur- 
suers in a network of streets. Then he would walk quietly 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 99 

home to tea. It is an exercise which may be commended to 
anyone of sedentary habits living near a public common. 

There was a socialist who attacked the upper classes with 
such vigor, that Ledgar felt compelled to intervene on behalf 
of his own caste. 

What do the upper classes give to the community that we 
do not?” asked the lecturer. “Brains,” put in Ledgar. “Well, 
I’ve giyen them a dozen, me and my missis between us.” The 
laugh was against Dunstan, who once more felt the oppres- 
sion of a heartless world. 

Then there was the Atheist, a man with hard mouth, who 
professed himself sufficiently broad-minded to listen to any 
fair opponent — and, when a mild little gentleman in gold- 
rimmed spectacles and with a large umbrella stated a mild* 
argument against his case, retorted with a “let us bray.” But 
he had his match in another old gentleman, with a long beard, 
who sat on a camp stool reciting impromptu verses. 

“The man who asserts nowadays that there is a personal God 
shows his complete ignorance of biology.” 

He says there isnt any God. 

Oh, what a silly! O my Lord! 

“Science has completely dispelled the biblical account of 
the creation.” 

He says his grandpa was an ape. 

He looks about that size and shape. 

“I say quite plainly that I am an agnostic about such mat- 


He calls himself an agno stick. 

The fellow makes me feel quite sick, 
Td like to give him half a brick 
And send him down below to Nick* 

a 


'David was called the friend of God- 


100 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 


He*s going now for poor old Davidj 
That shows the fellow isnt saved. 

Not, perhaps, Miltonic verse; but none the less crushing and 
effective. 

The morning came at last when Ledgar was to take up 
his new duties at the office. Mr. Muttleboy accompanied him, 
showing a little nervousness as on the occasion of his visit 
to the school, but less than when he was apprenhensive lest 
some faux pas might land him across the knee of Dr. Greig. 
A stout, pompous gentleman, next a small, testy gentleman, 
interviewed the new arrival; then an extremely pleasant gen- 
tleman with smooth hair, making him look like a silver pheas- 
ant, took him into a small room where several clerks were 
working at desks. “Mr. Perrin, you will kindly show Mr. 
Dunstan what he has to do.” 

Mr. Perrin was a short, shabby man with yellow hair and 
a two days’ beard. He opened proceedings by asking Ledgar 
what had brought him there. The question was a little dis- 
concerting. 

“My uncle brought me. We came by bus.” 

“Yes, but I mean, what was it? Cards? Women? Wine? 
Not drink, I hope.” 

Ledgar assured him that it was not. 

“I’m glad of that. It brings a good many of us. It brought 
me. You wouldn’t think it; I was a respectable member of 
society once.” . 

Ledgar wondered whether it would be more polite to agree 
with him, or to question his statement. 

“Well brought up. Well educated. Bathed once a week. 
Father very respectable.” 

“Yes?” 

“Traveled in tin tacks for a large firm. Look at me 
now . . . Drink did it. Drank anything; port, sloe gin, 
whisky, methylated spirit — anything. And once — well, I was 
a relieving officer then. See how my hand shakes? If they’d 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan loi 

used the stomach pump I should be all right now. It was a few 
Christmases ago; bitter cold. I went into the Bull and 
Bush for some old ale and gin — dog’s nose, they called it. 
I daresay you know that. Still very cold and thirsty, so I 
went into the parish dispensary; they always kept a bottle of 
Tarragona there. It was lying on the counter. I had a 
glass; my word, it was all right. Had another. Had a third. 
Then my sister-in-law came in, and she had a glass. We 
nearly finished the bottle. But we hadn’t quite finished it, 
when the doctor came running in in an awful state. Of course, 
he ought not to have left it on the counter. They really 
thought they’d have to use the pump.” 

“What was it?” asked Ledgar. 

“Alcoholic preparation for a diseased stomach; post-mortem 
that afternoon. It was too bad leaving it there. But I’ve 
never tasted anything better in my life . . . Catch on to that 
letter book. Know how to copy letters? You damp the sheet 
like this, and then . . .” 

They were half way through copying the letters, when an 
extraordinary noise in the room, like a compound whooping- 
cough, indisposed hyena, Indian war cry, and dying sheep’s 
last groan, startled Ledgar almost out of his senses. He turned 
in time to see an elderly man, who, from his appearance, might 
really have been an elderly lady in trousers, burying his head 
in his desk, ostrich fashion. “Only old Massey laughing,’^ 
explained Perrin. “Don’t take any notice, and he’ll soon get 
over it. He’s feeling very much ashamed of himself just now. 
He always laughs like that five minutes after everybody else. 
Takes some time for a joke to sink in.” 

However many of Perrin’s other stories may have been true, 
it was certainly noticeable that this extraordinary^ and rather 
blood-curdling explosion did take place some little time after 
any story had been told; and was followed shortly afterwards 
by a shamefaced dive into the seclusion of the desk. 

“On the staff, or super?” asked Perrin. Ledgar thought 
he was on the staff, but did not quite know the difference. 


102 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Well, I’m a super. All us shabby-looking chaps are supers. 
They get us cheap. Twenty-five bob a week and I’ve twelve 
kids to keep. Good at ’rithmetic ? How much does that work 
out at? Two bob a week for each kid, isn’t it, and a bob 
pocket money for me and the missis. Not so dusty. Hullo, 
here’s Jelf; don’t let him see you with your hands in your 
pockets.” 

A man of about forty, well groomed and better dressed 
than most of the clerks, entered at that moment and spoke 
a few words to Ledgar before entering a kind of cubicle at 
the farther end of the room. “Mr. Jelf, head of the depart- 
ment. Not a bad sort, but old maidish,” explained Perrin. 

Several of the clerks in the room, judging from their attire, 
seemed to be supers; and one or two, from the color of their 
noses, to have arrived from similar causes to those which 
had brought Mr. Perrin to the office. One young man was 
busy drawing caricatures of his companions — not bad, Ledgar 
thought — with verses underneath ; they were passed from 
hand to hand. Another, said Perrin, spent most of his time 
in writing love letters to ladies of his acquaintance. Every 
now and then he buried his head in his hands, appeared to 
sleep for a few minutes, and woke with a start exclaiming, 
“Who am I? Where am I?” in a dazed voice. Someone 
would then answer, “Thomas Tidmarsh, 15b Threadneedle 
Street, Loss Department, August 15th, 1889.” This was 
one of the penalties of a romantic disposition. Perrin told 
Ledgar that once it had led to serious difficulties. A rival 
had inserted an advertisement in the paper, asking for boys 
to deliver messages during the dinner hour, at a very hand- 
some rate of remuneration. Replies were to be addressed to 
Tidmarsh at a certain florist’s where he had dealings. The 
lady at the florist’s sent them on to the office. Arrived in 
consequence, during the busiest hour of the day, forty or fifty 
eager boys, a sprinkling of elderly men, and several mothers. 
Some had traveled from the remotest suburbs, and Tidmarsh 
had an enormous time until someone, taking pity on him. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 103 

suggested that he should notify them that the place was filled. 

The office closed at half past four. “Come and have a 
drink, Dunstan,” suggested Perrin as they passed through 
the swing doors. He was still a teetotaler; Uncle Abina- 
dab drank port; Aunt Eliza, sherry; wine glasses were always 
set for him, but were never filled. His aunt never raised her 
glass to her lips without regretting that the state of her health 
compelled her to take the nasty stuff as a medicine. She 
certainly took her physic very bravely. Uncle Abinadab was 
unblushing. Perhaps he needed some stimulant to support 
him in his encounters with blue-bottles and wasps at summer 
meals, when he brandished the carving-knife lustily and bravely, 
and flung serviettes and napkin-rings in all directions — hitting 
the harelipped servant (who waited) far more often than the 
flies. 

Ledgar thought now that a glass of lemonade — or perhaps 
ginger beer or ale sounded more festive — would suit the occa- 
sion. Perrin and he, with an abnormally stout man who, dur- 
ing most of the day, had been discussing racing with an abnor- 
mally thin man, and during the rest of it had frequently been 
running out to get breaths of fresh air, accompanied them to 
a buffet just across the way; curiously enough the abnormally 
thin man was there already, and seemed inexpressibly surprised 
to see them. 

A florid barmaid, behind a circular counter on which were 
baskets of small biscuits, and at which sat several gentlemen — 
the majority of them both plain and colored — on high stools, 
which, from their conversation, seemed scarcely stools of re- 
pentance, responded to a call for “four Scotches and soda.” 
Ledgar lodged a timid demur on the ground that he was a 
teetotaler. Perrin said “Just for once didn’t matter,” the 
abnormally stout gentleman said he was practically a teeto- 
taler himself, and he always regarded Scotch and soda as 
practically a teetotal drink. Reassured by this, Ledgar lifted 
his glass to his own health and his own success in the office. 
Ugh! There could be no sin in drinking anything so un- 


104 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

speakably nasty. If they wanted to celebrate the occasion 
properly, why not have gone to the chemist’s and ordered four 
castor oils? . . . He noticed that he was expected to pay for 
this debauch himself, and for another drink that followed it. 
He wondered whether the feeling of exhilaration that followed 
— the don’t-care-a-damn, like-to-knock-down-a-policeman sort of 
feeling — was really worth the tenpence (or three and fourpence, 
counting all the drinks) expended in its purchase. But he was 
quite certain of this; Ledgar Dunstan was a very fine fellow, 
in his morning-coat and new silk hat (brushed in places the 
wrong way of the nap by the loving hands of Aunt Eliza} 
and these new companions of his were, in their own ways, very 
fine fellows, with a knowledge of the world (meaning drink, 
women, cards, and horse-racing) which simply took one’s 
breath away, and made them extremely fascinating companions. 

But Conscience — this had a word to say when the excite- 
ment had died out and the corresponding depression took its 
place. An uncomfortable, disagreeable thing. Conscience; al- 
ways trying to interfere. At least, he supposed it was Con- 
science. Or was it simply some artificial product of all that 
drumming and drilling in of principles and scruples in his 
childhood? “They’ve stuck principles into me like pins in a 
pincushion! I seem to stick out all round.” It is certainly 
uncomfortable to travel through the world with scruples stick- 
ing out of you at all points; unfortunately, without them, 
you may be unable to travel at all, and consequently get flat- 
tened entirely out of shape. But the other men did not seem 
to be troubled by conscience. Several scruples went to Led- 
gar’s dram; certainly Perrin and the stout gentleman had no 
uneasiness before or after it . . . But the stout gentleman 
thought it frightfully wicked not to pay one’s gambling debts, 
and the greatest sin in Perrin’s decalogue was not to stand a 
friend a drink when he had drunk himself into degradation, 
and could not afford another. A cruel world; but a curious 
one ! 

“Educate your conscience,” said some people ; ethical people, 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 105 

intellectual people. “Obey it, but educate it first.” That 
sounded extremely convenient and extremely wise. Tell it 
what to tell you to do first; then obey it. Mark Twain said 
once to Rudyard Kipling, “Treat your conscience as you would 
a child. Smack it when it becomes troublesome.” (But it 
is a mistake to strangle a troublesome child.) 

Ledgar smacked; smacked harder; when the small voice be- 
came a squall, he began to strangle. A mistake, and a pity. 

But it was certainly extremely troublesome. 

There were not only the Commandments of the Bible — the 
Commandments of Sinai, and of the Mount of Olives; there 
were scores of others carefully instilled into him by Mr. and 
Mrs. Dunstan — and certainly, to do them justice, followed 
by themselves. “Thou shalt not — Thou shalt not. . . .” 
Stevenson says Christ always insisted on the “Thou shalt.” 
It was one of the faults of the Nonconformity of Ledgar’s 
childhood that it insisted rather on the “Thou shalt 
not.” 

You see how it worked. “Come and have a cup of coffee, 
Dunstan.” No harm in dominoes after coffee. But, just to 
make ft interesting, sixpence on the game. Thou Shalt Not. 

Or again, “We’re going to play billiards at the Coffee 
Tree. Come over?” 

Bagatelle — certainly. Billiards? Thou Shalt Not. 

“Come on the river tomorrow, Dunstan?” “Tomorrow is 
Sunday.” “For a cycle ride, then?” “Come to the baths 
before breakfast?” Thou Shalt Not. 

Well, here is an instance where the pins came into play 
everywhere. 

A man asked him to spend a week-end at his home. 

Nap in the train going down. Whist; so much on a rub- 
ber. Wine at dinner. A music hall. Drinks. Train on 
Sunday into the country. Luncheon at an inn. Billiards in 
the evening. Secular songs. Cigars. 

Pins sticking out everywhere. Everywhere, the V erboten 
notice, Thou Shalt Not. 


io6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

It was not good enough. Life with such training, with such 
a conscience, was impossible. It couldn’t be done. 

He held up the white flag to Life. “I give in.” 

And down, down, down sank the mercury; awful misery; 
no satisfaction — but the other way seemed equally hopeless; 
far more difficult. 

It is a cruel world! 

He began to live the life of those around him. Good 
fellows, with secret codes of their own which he knew noth- 
ing of; codes utterly different from his own. Certain things 
they regarded as awful sins which to him were peccadilloes. 
He saw one lad knock another down for even hinting that 
he had said what was not true; he spoke about it for days 
afterwards, and never without flushing. “The fellow called 
me a liar.” Of course, Ledgar had been taught not to tell 
lies. But this seemed borne down by the weight of other 
teaching. Besides, what was Truth? He imagined something; 
it became True. Great gifts of humor and imagination, joined 
to average intellect, are far more likely to be successful in 
the search for the Great Secret than great intellect joined to 
commonplace humor and imagination. But of all gifts humor 
and imagination are the most dangerous. Imagination and 
humor twist everything round so. They take a subject, play 
with it, turn it upside down and inside out. 

You don’t know where you are! 

Ledgar visited several of his companions at their homes. 
Tidmarsh had rooms in Torrington Square; he went there. 
Pictures of actresses and racehorses on the walls. Cigarette 
pictures everywhere. A young lady in an enormous picture 
hat came in; was introduced — or Ledgar introduced to her; 
they were not particular in those circles. To Ledgar’s blush- 
ing dismay, she kissed him. 

The thin gentleman had a cottage in Kent; he went there. 
Demned, damp, mojst, unpleasant place, Mr. Mantalini would 
have thought. A river just below the cliff on which the gar- 
den stood. Walls dripping. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 107 

In one of the perspiring rooms, Ledgar lit — at rather an 
advanced age for such an experiment — his first cigar. Mr. 
Munton 'watched him reflectively for a few minutes. “It*s 
all right, isn’t it? They’re Wild Hindoos; not bad smokes.” 

Ledgar puffed and puffed, with no result. And Mr. Mun- 
ton still watched, with an amused smile on his face. Not 
otherwise were eyes watching the ineffectual life. 

“Won’t draw? My dear boy, you have not cut the end 
off. There, now it goes easily enough.” 

He read moist papers in a damp deck-chair in a wet garden. 
He walked down a sodden path past a spring, a well, and a 
water-butt, to the ferry; crossed the river, and enjoyed from 
swampy ground a fine view of mist-covered hills. And he 
spent the following day with his feet in mustard and his nose 
in tallow. 

Another clerk had a yacht at Fambridgc ; a converted vessel, 
once a lifeboat. The winter hedges of a flat country were 
bright gold. They had a substantial tea in a cottage chiefly 
furnished with cushions, flags, sweaters, and sea boots. Half 
a dozen unkempt but very brown young men were there. Half 
a dozen small yachts raced. Ledgar assisted by pulling at 
things called sheets, that looked like ropes; generally he pulled 
the wrong one. “Look out!” said his companion. He looked 
out, and was nearly brained by the swing-over of something 
called a boom. 

“Not hurt? I told you to look out” ... A fog came on; 
they started in a dinghy on a visit to a neighbor; pulled round 
and round until their efforts brought them back to their own 
boat. Dinner of tinned lobster, tinned fruit, tinned cocoa in 
a tin. Sleep in a clammy cabin, with a stove like the stout 
gentleman — it was always going out. On Sunday afternoon, 
the fog still holding, they went to a hamlet with a Danish 
name — formerly a Danish stronghold — along the river; and 
in the old church tower set the chimes going, to the astonish- 
ment of the villagers. 

Several men at the office had hobbies. One played the 


io8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

cornet — atrociously — and stayed behind after office hours mak- 
ing disgusting noises. Another, living in a suburb, posed as a 
naturalist, under difficulties. He kept fish in his cistern. He 
had a rather dingy tame sheep, which went for walks with 
him. He had a harmless and pleasing mania for planting 
bulbs in such suburban lanes as offered any soil for them. 
Their unexpected appearance gave such pleasure to jaded Lon- 
doners. It was unfortunate that most of them never came up. 
He would spend half an hour stalking a dead twig under the 
impression that it was a bird; and once, on a bitter morning, 
fell into a pond while investigating marsh gas. He was very 
absent-minded. If he started from home with a bag, the two 
never by any chance reached their destination together. For 
days the bag would wander on its own account about the coun- 
try. He would appear at the office with a clothes brush in his 
pocket, odd socks, a brown boot on one foot, a patent shoe on 
the other. 

Another man, Hobbs, was also eccentric in his costume. 
In winter he wore four suits. These were peeled off as the 
year advanced. 

Ledgar was all things to all men. Finding Life with a Non- 
conformist conscience, if not unendurable, at least extremely 
difficult, he let it go by the board; and made shift to shuffle 
somehow through without it. His work and his reputation 
suffered. It is a dangerous thing to make a voyage without 
compass, sextant, astrolabe, or cross-stafE. 


CHAPTER IX 


T here was a room at the Crescent which Ledgar chris- 
tened the Prophet’s Chamber. It had been converted 
from a dressing-room into a small bedroom, and was 
used to accommodate ministers and missionaries, who were 
frequent guests. In May it was useful for delegates to the 
meetings. Its last occupant was the Reverend Patrick Mac- 
Gillivray MacGregor, a young missionary from the Highlands, 
so completely Scotch that Mrs. Muttleboy said he could 
scarcely speak anything but Garlic. 

“Gaelic, my dear!” from Mr. Muttleboy. 

He stayed for some weeks, and when he perished miserably 
in the South Seas — some converts turning a tea meeting which 
he organized into a high tea, and leaving only his wishbone 
to his sorrowing relatives — Ledgar took over the room as a 
study. He fitted up bookshelves and pictures; one or two 
Meissonier reproductions, and Millet’s “Angelus,” and, in his 
evenings, started literary work. 

He joined an office subscription to Mudie’s. Perrin, con- 
sulted as to a good book for his first list, said that he had 
always heard the Bible described as a good book. If Dunstan 
wanted something light and at the same time instructive, why 
not try “The History of the World Before the Creation”? 
Or he could read (because not long before Ledgar had been 
making some caustic remarks about drapers, and Perrin’s 
brother was a draper) “The Book of Snobs.” 

He read a great many novels, and some weightier books, 
which added to his general knowledge. When Uncle Abina- 
dab remarked on so much fiction being bad mental food, Led- 
gar excused himself by saying that they were necessary training 
for his work. . . . But Dickens did not read novels. In the 
same way, he had always the excuse for investigating byways of 


109 


no The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

life which would better have been left unexplored, byways of 
the seamy side of life. He had three weeks holiday in the 
year; and went in his first year to Paris, after a week-end 
at Came Bay. Mrs. Muttleboy always refused to visit the 
Continent. She liked people to speak an intelligible language; 
and Ledgar fancied from certain vague remarks that she was 
under the veiled but shocked impression that French people 
did not wear clothes. . . . Ledgar stayed in the Impasse du 
Maine, in a ramshackle hotel with a courtyard, in which were 
green pots with shrubs, and green iron chairs and tables. The 
great, nail-studded door shutting it from the street had a 
curious and hospitable habit of opening itself when you were 
late home. A balcony ran round the courtyard; every morn- 
ing, opposite Dunstan ’s room, a stout Frenchman in pyjamas 
raised hands to the heavens, extended arms, and lifted plump 
legs. At first sight you saw in him a suicide in the act of div- 
ing from the balcony. The Impasse was difficult to pronounce; 
in mentioning it to a gendarme you found it difficult to give 
it the exact altitude of squeak; but it was convenient for the 
Quarter. Ledgar went to the Louvre; to Notre Dame, and to 
the Morgue. In his heart of hearts, he preferred the Morgue 
to Notre Dame. From the stones of Notre Dame you made 
tragedy and history; the nave and chapels held innumerable 
ghosts; Esmeralda and her gilt-hoofed goat haunted the pre- 
cincts; Quasimodo swung among the bells, and peered out 
from gargoyle and from buttress. But in the Morgue you saw 
History in the making — raw tragedy, unburied by the cen- 
turies — perhaps a mean tragedy, perhaps a sorry tragedy; but 
real, to be seen or touched, under your very eyes. The morbid, 
the gruesome, the horrible and repulsive, had a fascination for 
him which it held for Da Vinci, and has held for many artists. 
He listened, incredulous, while a middle-aged Englishman 
turned from a guide’s invitation to enter with a gesture of 
disgust. Not go in! Why, there was a man taken drowned 
from the river; twenty-four hours back, perhaps, he had been 
alive; perhaps rushing down the boulevards, singing and shout- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan iii 

ing; drinking his absinthe in some cabaret. What was his 
history? What his loves, his hopes, his ambitions? His 
early memories? With the dead remnant of the man before 
you, you could reconstruct it all. . . . Perhaps, like the lad 
in Browning’s poem, he wanted to be Bonaparte, and found 
his Invalides in a Paris Morgue. ... A young woman too; 
some grisette or model, found poisoned in her attic. Love? 
Jealousy? . . . 

He went to the Moulin Rouge, climbed the legs of the ele- 
phant, and at the top saw some Eastern dance. A performance 
repulsive and grotesque. . . . But he was seeing life. In 
the Quarter, he went to one or two puppet shows. A Sicilian 
vendetta tragedy in one. A girl was seduced by the son of a 
nobleman; her brothers swore vengeance. On Carnival night, 
masked figures, half drunk, bearing one who seems wholly so, 
enter the palace, and are given wine. They drink the noble- 
man’s health, he theirs; and the revelers pass on their way. 
The host turns to rouse the drunken man, whom they have left 
huddled on the floor. “Rouse yourself, my friend! Your 
comrades have passed on.” He lifts the mask — his son. Dead ! 
Stabbed to the heart! 

Horrible things, gruesome things; the things that others 
turn aside from with fear or shuddering disgust. He did not 
know why they fascinated him ; he did not analyze the fascina- 
tion. But the twisted legs of a puppet, writhing, staggering, 
lifted in grotesque revelry, attracted him more than the most 
beautiful living woman in the audience. Dead things. These 
he liked. 

At night he unfastened the window of his room and went 
out on the balcony. A dead world swung in space among dead 
worlds. They were phosphorescent with death. On this earth, 
a few living organisms crept and moved, moribund. From the 
first platform of the Tower he had watched the gardens that 
evening, black with them ; with a snake of fire gliding and mov- 
ing among them ; torches of soldiers, lighting up faces here and 
there. But what were the living to the dead? Unnumbered 


1 12 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

millions had made this earth their grave. Dust, dust, dust, 
the World ; and dying dust moved impotently on its putrescent 
surface . . . The room behind him held the must of old 
centuries. It was dead, that room; dead, with its tarnished 
gilded cornices, its rose-decorated paper peeling from the walls, 
its dull, faded brocades and heavy quilt and posted bed, its 
close and suffocating air. It died a century ago, with the men 
who plotted in it the death of friends and enemies. 

As his salary increased he extended the range of travel. One 
year he went even to Algeria; exploring the lowest slums of 
Algiers, haggling in the bazaars, visiting, alone save for a 
guide picked up by chance, places the interior of which he had 
better not have seen. . . . Well, a writer must know every- 
thing, see everything. The old seigneur and his vassal’s bride 
slept sometimes between drawn steel. Some can guard soul 
from body ; Ledgar had not learned his lesson. . . . Singularly 
enough, although he was always frightened, he mixed, from 
obtuseness perhaps, from stupidity, from a pride thinking itself 
immune, with strange and barbaric men among whom his life 
— but for the guardianship which shields fools and children — 
hung almost by the thread of a chance gesture. He saw again 
the dance of the Moulin Rouge; but here unrestrained. He 
haunted chiefly a cafe where there was no dancing; a low- 
ceiled room hung with scimitars and bronze shields, where, 
crouched on a rug faded with the suns of many years, he sipped 
black coffee and smoked black cigarettes to the music of native 
instruments. For in that music lay the savage heart of Africa ; 
dark ages of tribal war, of slave torment, of sacrificial rite. 

The literary work he did suffered from the life he was then 
living. He was desultory, lukewarm in effort; the sterile 
dreaming of childhood passed into his early manhood. Years 
ago he wanted to be a very good man; wanted to be a very 
bad man; wanted — wanted . . . 

He did not know indeed what his want was. For hours, 
after his visit to Paris, he sat in idleness visualizing scenes 
which, from their vividness, seemed to translate themselves 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 113 

into fact before his eyes. Of course he wanted to be a writer; 
meant to be a writer — a great writer. But then he wanted 
to be so many things. 

“I seem to be so many people,” he said once to himself. 
“A pork butcher wants to be a pork butcher; he starts his 
shop, sells pork; the thing is done. A stockbroker wants to 
be a stockbroker; he goes on the Exchange, sells stock; the 
thing is done. The pork butcher does not say, ‘I want to be 
a pork butcher, but I want also to sell stock.’ The stock- 
broker does not say, ‘I want to be a stockbroker, but I want 
also to sell pork.’ ” 

Ledgar wanted to be an Emperor. He read Malet’s “Con- 
spiracy”; figured himself in Napoleonic uniform on a white 
horse; he fancied he bore some facial resemblance to the Cor- 
sican. 

Some men in the office were Roman Catholics; here was 
the one sovereignty in Europe to which anyone might aspire. 
The second English Pope! Temporal power restored: “Tu 
es Petrus” thundering from choir and organ in St. Peter’s; 
Swiss Guards, Lateran Guards, saluting him as he passed 
between kneeling crowds. A fine ambition. Ambition — amb 
and eo; going round to solicit votes; desire for superiority in 
place or honor. But it is more than a desire. 

In the meantime, he wrote short stories, short articles; a 
novel commenced but never finished. The articles dealt with 
incidents of everyday life; a sketch of some odd character 
encountered, a railway scene, a glimpse of prison or asylum 
life. They went out~in batches and returned like boomerangs. 
Thud, thud, thud, in the letter-box at every post. Piles of 
them under a Venetian lion paperweight on his desk. A dis- 
couraging business; editors are very cruel. 

But one day came an envelope bearing the name of a popu- 
lar weekly in enormous flaming letters. A postal order was 
inside. And by and by these came with some frequency. 

He celebrated such an occasion with a night in town. Tea 
at a cafe, or perhaps dinner at one of the small Soho restau- 


1 14 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

rants. Wine, liqueur, cigar. He went generally alone. Then 
a music hall or a theater. Pit, usually; perhaps half an hour 
waiting in the queue. He liked watching people. He liked 
to reconstruct the life of the waiter, in some teeming, squalid 
city at the back of the far Alps. He liked to visualize the 
home life of some plump, beringed woman, some lusty, over- 
fed man. An ordinary married couple’s outing? Reconcilia- 
tion after a tiff? An intrigue? 

His Puritan training colored his reflections curiously. 
What, now, about Mr. Masterman’s Judgment Day? Pic- 
ture some night like this: waiters, guests, courtesans, in the 
restaurants; cabs passing; theaters all open. Lads and girls 
swinging past. How far removed from all this, that amazing 
story of some day the Heavens opening; the great White 
Throne; the Trump summoning all to dread account! How 
they would stare, these people, if it happened! How cower, 
perhaps! . . . Was it too remote from probability? 

And what one saw now, this world had seen through count- 
less generations; kaleidoscopic change of color, but the pieces 
changeless. In Rome, on a thousand thousand violet nights, 
men, women, waiters in the restaurants; wine red in the gob- 
lets; the passing biga carrying some patrician, some courtesan 
to the play. In Babylon, in Carthage, in Tyre. The hard 
African sky looked down on Dido’s city as the London sky 
looked down; like the leaves in the forest, so passed the gen- 
erations of man ; and that Great and Notable Day which was 
so very real to Ebenezer, came not. 

No. Some unknown, unpitying hand moved the kaleido- 
scope; perhaps in blindness, perhaps for its own pleasure; 
the colors shifted and changed; and the pieces moved in a 
monotony of ineffectual, senseless effort . . . Very cruel and 
purposeless. 

Ledgar exercised no discrimination in his choice of enter- 
tainment. Sometimes a music hall; generally the Tivoli in 
the Strand. If the theater was wicked, the music hall was 
the last word in dissipation. He 'was surprised, and a little 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 115 

disappointed to see how far Mr. Masterman was from the 
fact. Nothing aggressively vicious. The jokes of the co- 
medians were rarely worse than those made by his father to 
the ladies of the Dorcas. They dealt with similar subjects; 
babies, ladies, mothers-in-law, landladies, men coming home 
late. In the mother-in-law joke there seemed almost some- 
thing Biblical, “Peter’s wife’s mother was sick of a fever.” 
You fancied the narrator smiling up his sleeve. There were 
performing animals, conjurers; you saw the same thing at the 
Aquarium or the Palace. . . . He went to melodramas at the 
Adelphi, saw Irving as Shylock, King Lear, in “The Bells.” 
Once he went to Pagliacci; now and then to Gilbert and Sul- 
livan’s operas; he saw Enfant Prodigue/* the wonderful 
little dumb-show play where the curtain falls on the repentant 
lad marching off behind the bugles. There was “Rosemary,” 
and Ada Rehan in “Twelfth Night” — wonderful, that; to be 
seen again and again; the night revelry and rounds and catches 
in the kitchen holding the very spirit of Elizabethan life. And 
Coquelin and Bernhardt in "'Cyrano'* ! The French a little 
difficult to follow; but how glorious! The pastrycook’s — 
Cyrano's duel, “And I prick as I end the refrain . . the 
sentinel, who is to play a lively tune for a woman, a slow tune 
for a man, playing both as a monk enters (and here is part 
of the tragedy of Ledgar’s temperament; both tunes played 
when he was born!) . . . "Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne" 
. . . Yet he would go, with the next guinea, to some suburban 
music hall where fourth-rate artists trailed red herrings across 
the stage and sat on hats. 

But the guineas came very slowly. That they came at all 
stood him in evil stead. “I am doing no good at this,” he 
would think, when rejection followed rejection. “I’ll cut 
these penny papers, and put my best into something.” And 
then another guinea, with its lure of another night in town, 
set him feverishly to work again at ropes of sand. No plan 
of campaign. No program. Vague dreams of greatness; 
spurts of work at tasks far below his unknown powers; insane 


Ii6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

conceit at the paltriest success . . . Until one night brought 
about an alteration in his fortunes. 

He dined in town with Perrin and some acquaintances. It 
was to celebrate a not inconsiderable success; the winning 
of a ten-guinea prize in a Christmas competition. They went 
to an old haunt in Rupert Street, a place blazing with lights, 
ornate with gilt-edged mirrors and sham marble. It was 
crowded, though only a small proportion of the guests were 
in evening dress. Six courses; Chianti; Benedictine with the 
coffee. Do you know the chapter on Roussillon wine ? Every- 
thing stood out in hard, clear outline in the restaurant; Led- 
gar caught himself talking, laughing, joking more freely than 
was his wont. In hansoms they drove to a music hall near 
Leicester Square. Whisky and soda in the circle, and in the 
buffet. Not at all a bad show. In the lounge, they had drinks 
with women; a new experience. But a literary man must 
know all sides of life. 

Half past nine. At the Crescent it was a misdemeanor to 
be late at prayers; a crime to be in after ten, when the door 
was barred and all the shutters closed. Mrs. Muttleboy, kind- 
ness itself in other matters, set herself like a flint against in- 
fringement of rules. Ten had been the hour at her father’s 
house; when her brother was quite grown up — wearing sandy 
side-whiskers, indeed — he had never dared to be out a minute 
after ten. It was the law in her house, as in his; Median and 
Persian in rigidity. Only a few nights before, Ledgar had 
broken it. She was waiting, statuesque, in a mauve dressing- 
gown; his uncle in a great chair opposite. The bronze clock 
ticked between them. No disputing that witness. It never 
varied. For forty years its dark hands creeping over the dark 
face had regulated the movements of their lives. From pray- 
ers on Monday morning to prayers on Sunday night, from 
sausages on Monday morning to rissoles on Sunday night, week 
in and week out, year in and year out, the clock controlled 
them; sending Uncle Ab to business punctually at 8.45 in his 
hansom; sending Aunt Eliza to her mothers’ meeting and her 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 117 

Dorcas. To the clock they had looked when old Mrs. Muttleboy 
lay dying and the doctor was so late in his visit. At the clock 
they had looked, though in another house, when the feet of the 
bearers were on the stairs, and a little coffin was being carried out. 

The clock said distinctly, “Five-and-twenty to eleven.” 
No disputing it. No challenging it. It was never wrong. 

Mrs. Muttleboy’s Skye terrier wagged its apology of a tail. 
It had scarcely any tail, a great difficulty; its mistress always 
had some hesitation in knowing which end should be fed. But 
if Mr. and Mrs. Muttleboy had had tails, if the harelipped 
maid, who was also up, had had a tail, there would have been 
no quiver of welcome. 

“Five-and-twenty to eleven, my boy,” said Mr. Muttleboy, 
pointing to the clock. “Your aunt has been very anxious.” 

“I thought you knew the rules of the house, Ledgar. It is 
really too bad of you. You keep the servants up as well. Do, 
do try not to let it occur again. Ten o’clock is quite late 
enough for a young man to be out!” 

He checked a retort that times had moved in fifty years, and 
that he was not a child. ^‘Very well, aunt,” he said, biting his 
lip. She wept a little; was indeed, as he thought afterwards, 
almost maudlin in her distress. Why should anyone want to be 
out after ten? When she was a girl young men kept proper 
hours; respectable young men. She was sure Ledgar wanted 
to be regarded as a respectable young man. She would not be 
able to sleep now, it had distressed her so much. “Please, 
please don’t let it occur again.” 

“Very well, aunt.” 

He went upstairs in advance of the harelipped maid, who 
(the accommodation for servants in the old house being lim- 
ited) slept in an attic reached by a ladder. It was customary 
and decorous, when she went to bed, to keep one’s room, or — 
if unavoidably in the vicinity — to turn the head discreetly away. 
Then she made a rush at her ladder, took it by storm, and, 
having scaled it, banged down a trapdoor as a medieval baron 
banged down his portcullis on enemies. 


Ii8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

And now it was half-past nine in the Olympic Music Hall. 
He played with his watch. Absurd to tell them that he must 
be in bed by ten. He waited a while — fidgeted, although the 
whisky gave him spurious courage. He hated the idea of an- 
other scene. 

“I say, you fellows. I’ll have to be getting off.” 

“What, already? We’re only just beginning the evening. 
You’re a pretty sort of host, Dunstan. Have another Scotch.” 

Half past ten. One more turn, and then he really would 
go. “Well, so long. I must be going. The old people al- 
ways sit up.” 

He went out, a little unsteadily, into the night air. Cabs 
flashing past like fireflies; women in opera cloaks stepping 
daintily in white shoes, men in evening things; restaurants, 
buffets, cafes, blazing with lights. Violet sky and stars above. 
He tried to board a bus; it was full already. A clock struck. 
Not so late, surely! Again his watch came out; it had stopped. 

Well, he was fairly in for it now. Sailing down the road 
towards him came Tidmarsh, a girl on each arm. Pretty girls 
— bright eyes, rosy cheeks that by day would have been garish. 
“Hullo, Dunstan. Come and have a wet. Miss Connie 
Featherstone, Mr. Dunstan. Mademoiselle Dubois. What 
are you doing in town at these ungodly hours? Rot! You can 
spare five minutes; the night’s young.” 

A bar uncomfortably hot, uncomfortably crowded; largely 
by the demi-monde. Well, he was fairly in for it. An old 
woman didn’t like her rules broken! Why, there were great 
star patches. There were three hundred million old women 
in the world who did not like their rules broken. Men of 
genius (he was sure of that now) could not be bound by petty 
regulations. A hundred thousand million old women who 
did not like their rules broken lay in their graves, revolved in 
space, handfuls of dust making up the great revolving dust- 
heap. Other people did not think of all that. He did. 

Good old London! Jolly old city, drab with experience 
and age, blazing for this one night of his youth under 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 119 

the stars. Wine was in his blood; youth was in his blood. 

He didn’t care. But he shivered a little; the night seemed 
to have turned chill. The mercury seemed to have sunk very 
low. He was an awful fool, anyway. There’d be the devil 
to pay now. 

Five o’clock. 

‘‘I wish I’d never met that fellow Tidmarsh.” 

A pretty girl, though — a deuced pretty girl. Awfully fetch- 
ing, that broken French of hers. Her address ought to be in 
his pocket — ah, there it was. A crumpled paper with stains of 
port wine upon it. Still, it was no good, this sort of thing, 
though the other fellows thought nothing of it. Indeed, they 
talked at the office of little else. It was all Gertie this — 
Flossie that — Winnie . . . 

Yes, Tidmarsh had been talking about some girl at a night 
club named Winnie the afternoon before. The afternoon 
before, the city office, Mr. Jelf scratching away like a middle- 
aged hen in his cubicle — these things were a million years ago. 
But Winnie . . . Oh, damn, it wasn’t good enough! . . . 
He tore the address to scraps, and flung them down. He 
walked on a few yards. But if he hadn’t the address, he would 
never see her again. She was deuced pretty. Her broken 
French was awfully ripping. 

He picked up the scraps. 

It was half past five when he reached the Crescent. Of 
course he had no key ; someone would have to come. He hoped 
the harelipped maid might come down and let him in. 

He rang and then knocked, not very loudly. Knocked 
again. He was waking the whole Crescent. Old city mer- 
chants and their ladies must be bobbing up night-capped heads 
from frilled pillows all along the line of houses. 

Slowly the door was unbarred, and opened. Uncle Ab 
stood on the threshold. 

‘‘Well . . .” 

His candle was in his hand ; he had on his quilted dressing- 


gown. 


120 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

A quavering voice from the head of the stairs asked, “Is 
that you, dear? Has he come in?” 

The “dear” was unusual. The whole fabric of her life 
seemed tottering, giving way. She clung to Uncle Ab as some- 
thing still substantial left among the wreckage. 

“Yes, he’s come.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Half past five.” 

They went into the dining-room, where the bronze, dark- 
faced clock was just chiming. Rarely were there any visitors 
in the room at that hour. Only when someone died. And 
upstairs old Aunt Eliza was thinking, in forty years the house 
door had never once been opened after ten o’clock, except on 
two or three duly legalized and prearranged occasions. 

“I’m— shorry I’m so late, uncle. Fack is, I — I met some 
friendsh o’ mine.” 

“Sit down.” 

The furniture was heavy enough, cumbrous enough in all 
conscience; but the great chairs seemed swaying. And his 
great-grandmother on the wall was bobbing up and down in 
the most insane fashion. 

“Now, Ledgar, I want to talk to you. You’ve been drink- 
ing, sir. And it’s half past five in the morning. Your aunt 
and I have been kind to you ; you have no right to treat us like 
this. You will give our house a bad name in the Crescent. 
I saw the night watchman’s lantern as you came in ; everyone 
will hear of it.” 

“I’m shorry, uncle.” 

“Well, if this happens again you will really have to find 
other quarters. I’ve been a young man myself; but half past 
five— I’ve had a terrible time with your aunt. She’s fond of 
you too. We stayed up until past one. Now go up to 
bed.” 

He had an awful night and rose the next morning with a 
tongue like leather. 

Mrs. Muttleboy renewed the attack at breakfast. It was 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan I2l 

an unheard-of thing. If her brother had ever done such a 
thing, her father would have flogged him unmercifully. What 
could Ledgar have been doing? She continued to the end of 
breakfast. Feeling too sick to eat, he played with a little ham ; 
the clack-clack of her tongue jarred on his nerves. Wasn’t 
she ever going to stop? Heaps of fellows at the office stayed 
out till five or six continually; they had latchkeys. Why 
shouldn’t he have a latchkey? He suggested it. 

“No, thank you, Ledgar. You’d be out till five every 
night. I don’t propose to begin that in my house. I’m calling 
at Mrs. Thornton’s this afternoon; she’s sure to have heard 
of it.” Mrs. Thornton was the doctor’s wife, living at the 
corner house; Mrs. Muttleboy’s chief friend. Ledgar won- 
dered whether the roof would fall if he said, “Damn Mrs. 
Thornton !” 

But when he came back at a quarter past five to tea, he 
found Mrs. Thornton in the drawing-room. Apparently the 
visit had been reversed. Mrs. Thornton also belonged to the 
old school; a large, pink lady, very punctilious; she would 
spend ten minutes in deciding whether she had spent qjd. or 
iifd. yesterday at the draper’s, or what were the ipsissima 
verba of the assistant. Not a lady to take such an offense as 
his sitting down. And there they were, the two of them, 
clack-clacking about him when he entered. Mrs. Thornton 
received him most frigidly. She was generally even effusive. 
“You have upset your dear aunt very much. Her health is by 
no means strong; the doctor said she was on no account to be 
worried, or to be subjected to any shock. Really, Ledgar, it 
is too bad of you. If one of my boys acted so I don’t know 
what I should say. Thank goodrfess they are always in bed 
by ten; I tuck them up myself.” And much they enjoy it, 
thought Ledgar. He had heard Percy Thornton call his 
mamma behind her back “the pink cockatoo.” There had been 
a very mysterious business, too, about one of the maids at the 
Thorntons’. 

He submitted in silence until several other ladies called, and 


122 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

they had tea. Two maids handed round bread and butter and 
cake. And Ledgar was the topic of conversation; sometimes 
directly, sometimes in innuendo. The presence of the servants 
put the finishing touch to the indignity. 

“Look here, aunt,” he said at last, standing up, “Fve had 
about enough of it. I’m sorry about last night, but I think 
you’ve rubbed it in sufficiently. There’s no need to drag it 
all out before strangers and the servants.” 

“My dear, he calls us strangers!” said Mrs. Culpepper to 
Mrs. Cole under her breath. 

“I have often observed,” said Mrs. Thornton with dignity, 
“that when people are not ashamed of doing wrong, they 
frequently are ashamed of being reproved for it.” 

Ledgar was goaded beyond endurance. He had spent a day 
on dry toast and Worcester sauce. “Oh, shut up, you pink 
cockatoo!” he said, and banged the door on a roomful of open 
eyes and open mouths. 

He went upstairs and packed his bag furiously. On a scrap 
of paper he wrote Tidmarsh’s address, and over it, “Please 
forward boxes and letters.” Impertinent old cats! Once 
more he was up against the universe. Stupid cruelty, personi- 
fied this time in old women. Clack-clack-clack! 

“Oh, curse the whole thing!” he said, and swung out of 
the house. “Why can’t people leave other people alone?” 

Tidmarsh received him quite gladly, though there were only 
a couple of bloaters and a tin of cocoa in the house. Oh, of 
course, whisky. Ledgar waved away the last suggestion. Prus- 
sic acid or strychnine, if he liked. 

A day later came a letter from Uncle Muttleboy. He 
thought Ledgar had acted very rashly and inconsiderately. 
After all, his aunt was an old lady. She had naturally been 
a great deal upset. Uncle Muttleboy hoped he would come 
back at once to the Crescent, and there need be nothing further 
said about it. They were both fond of him; hoped, too, that 
he was fond of them. 

On reflection he found that at Tidmarsh’s he would be in 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 123 

an impossible position. He missed his large bedroom, his 
study. 

It would be an awkward business if Uncle Muttleboy 
declined to send his possessions. He would be at a dead-end 
without his books and desk. And the expense . . . 

He went back. There was no effusive welcome of the 
prodigal, though both were obviously glad to see him. 

Mrs. Muttleboy, though she had evidently been schooling 
herself to silence, could not resist a final clack. She did hope 
he would try to keep the rules of the house in future, as she 
kissed him after supper. Rules were rules. 

Uncle Muttleboy winked, as who should say, “You see what 
we men have to put up with, Ledgar.” He did not want the 
business reopened. 

“Very well, aunt. ... I don’t like being discussed before 
the servants, though.” 

He was glad to be back again in the big bedroom; to sleep 
in the spacious four-poster, with its eider down and hot-water 
bottle, instead of the narrow shake-down at Tidmarsh’s. The 
night was chilly, and there was a cheerful fire in the room. 
Very cosy. 

He was scarcely asleep when he heard unusual movements 
in the house below, generally so quiet. By and by there was a 
tap at his door. “Will you please come down at once, sir. 
Mrs. Muttleboy is very ill.” 


CHAPTER X 


H e went downstairs to the great bedroom on the first 
floor. Dr. Thornton had already been; “Fll look in 
again later/’ he was saying at the bedroom door. 
Ledgar met him in the passage near the library. The old doc- 
tor was grumpy; he hated being called at night. Most in- 
considerate of an old friend like Mrs. Muttleboy! He had 
a white silk handkerchief round his throat, and was putting 
on a respirator. Funny! A doctor comes to cure a patient, 
and has to wear a respirator lest he shall get bronchitis and 
die himself. 

But he was not going to cure Mrs. Muttleboy. 

“Apoplexy,” he said gruffly. “Shock of some sort; or per- 
haps the steak pie at supper. I told her not to take it. She 
won’t live through the night.” 

Ledgar’s heart gave a sudden jump. Incredible! Why, 
only an hour or so ago they had been talking together at sup- 
per. She had had her glass of sherry; had thrown fragments 
to the Skye (Uncle Ab used to chaff her about throwing 
fragments to the sky). 

For forty years, she had had her supper at the same hour, 
had drunk her glass of sherry, had talked, had — no, she could 
not well have thrown fragments to the Skye. 

The machinery could not be going to run down? The 
tongue that had clack-clacked at him — the eyes that had 
watched him, generally with kindliness and humor. . , . 

He entered the room. It was dimly lit. A maid stood 
respectfully silent near the door, and a nurse was by the 
bedside. 

In the four-poster bed, under her watch-pocket, lay Aunt 
Eliza, mountainous under the white sheets. He had never 
seen her in bed. There was an acrid smell in the room. Led- 


124 


The Rise of ILedgar Dunstan 125 

gar noticed that her teeth had been taken out, and the false 
front was gone, altering her appearance entirely. Stiff little 
gray ringlets spread on the frilled pillow. The pallor of her 
face showed distinctly the gray mustache, and the bristly gray 
hairs on her chin. He reflected now that Aunt Eliza looked 
less attractive than when she was receiving visitors. 

He kissed her perfunctorily; he really felt sorry, but a great 
deal more horrified and shocked. She was unconscious. Two 
hours ago, if he had spoken she would have answered. Now, 
perhaps, she would never answer any more questions; never 
again make any of her accustomed remarks about the weather, 
the canary, the Dorcas, the young women and young men. 
Never quarrel again with the servants, the groundsel man, the 
cats’ meat man. Incredible. Never? Not to-morrow, nor in a 
week’s time? Not in a million years’ time? 

Uncle Ah sat by the bed, holding her hand. His head was' 
bowed; now and then he stroked her hand, or bent to kiss it. 
“Precious creature, precious creature,” he kept murmuring. 
Rather curious, that. An old lady, with a mustache and her 
teeth out, mountainous under the sheets — “precious creature.” 
In a sense, she had been an inefficient wife. No children were 
round her bed ; the only child she could bear at all, a weakling, 
dying in its first day. Ledgar did not think she could ever 
have been pretty. She bore no trace of beauty like Mrs. Bel- 
tinge. By rule of thumb she had kept house for forty years. 
Day after day she said the same things; humorous sometimes, 
but the same. 

“Precious creature!” 

The man with bowed head saw a thousand incidents, a 
thousand episodes, filling those years. At the window of an 
old house, she sat while a maid curled her hair in ringlets; she 
pulled away, to look down the drive in case Ah was coming 
. . . Her wedding day; a dove-colored dress — all the grooms- 
men, all but one of the bridesmaids were dead ... A cottage 
in Devonshire, with stairs leading from^the sitting-room; shin- 
gle and sea in front of them ; roses ; odd little streets with run- 


126 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

nels of water for gutters, cobbles, queer, tiny shops at which 
they did the honeymoon marketing . . . Work by lamplight 
in a little suburban house; sock-darning; ‘^‘Time for bed, Ab, 
dear” . . . The Crescent with its yearly, monotonous, unvary- 
ing round, save for the three weeks in Wales, in Scotland, in 
Devonshire, at Eastbourne or Scarborough. . . . “Precious 
creature!” 

Mr. Muttleboy rose. “I want to send some telegrams, Led- 
gar,” he said, in a broken voice. They went into the library. 
“Take a hansom up to town. Here’s some silver. Isn’t that 
enough?” Ledgar looked at the coins dubiously. 

“Yes, uncle, quite enough,” bringing himself round with 
, a jerk. 

It was exhilarating, this, to dash by night through sleeping 
London on an enterprise making lateness legitimate. He won- 
dered whether many of the houses that night held such scenes. 
Some, doubtless. Another man, on an errand similar, was in 
the office. But in his case It had happened. “Our dear one 
passed away at ...” 

What was it all for? All these sleeping millions; and one 
night — one day at every door would stand 

the black horse. 

To bear them forth to unknown lands. 

He was in the Crescent again ; the night watchman, flashing 
his lantern on the doors, stopped to open the cab door. “Sorry 
to hear about poor Mrs. Muttleboy, sir. Good friend she was 
to me. Lord, Lord, I’ve seen a few of ’em go in this Cres- 
cent.” 

The maid who let him in told him that his aunt had had 
the stroke soon after she had gone upstairs to bed. They 
heard a cry; hurrying In, they found her in shift and stockings 
on the edge of the bed. They just saved her from a fall. She 
never spoke. 

Odd thing, that. You could figure some naughty girl in 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 127 

Piccadilly sitting on her bed-edge in shift and stockings. That 
pretty little French girl, for instance. But an old lady — with 
a mustache — an old lady who had presided over Dorcas 
meetings, and had poured out from a great urn at tea meet- 
ings! 

He went up again to the room, and stood holding his aunt’s 
hand. A shapely hand; the hand of a lady, although she 
looked cumbrous and uncouth under the clothes. But the 
hand on which glistened the thin gold ring was in his uncle’s. 

There, had been a change in her breathing. A curious, fish- 
like breathing, Ledgar noticed; as if gills were rising and 
falling. Da Vinci, when news of his friend’s wife having died 
suddenly was brought, went silently from the room to fetch 
paper in order that he might jot down the lines caused by sud- 
den grief. “My God,” cries a writer, in half-terror at him- 
self, “I could write a sonnet on my mother’s coffin.” The 
artistic temperament; so great, so awful a gift; bringing some 
men to the battlements of heaven, dragging some to the lowest 
depths of hell. 

He was frightened of himself; he thought, nevertheless, “If 
I write of an old woman dying, I shall know 1” He stamped 
the picture on his mind; great convex windows, couch, ma- 
hogany bedstead, the waiting maid, the gray felt slippers of 
the nurse, the dressing-room door half open . . . On the 
washhandstand, in a glass, his aunt’s teeth. 

Dr. Thornton came again, and went. He treated Mr. Mut- 
tleboy as if he had a personal grievance against him; too bad 
to have wives who died during the night. As if she had been 
pressed for time. As if she could not have died decently at 
any time during forty years by daylight. Such a cold night, 
too. 

Morning was just breaking when she died. They kissed 
her ; for a few minutes Mr. Muttleboy was left alone with his 
dead. 

Ledgar went into the library and looked out. The garden, 
where she had played ridiculously ineffective croquet, was gray 


128 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

and still; but there was the faintest gleam of gold in the sky. 
From the hovels near the canal, so noisy by day, came a 
solitary cry, lost in instant silence; the scream of a child, per- 
haps, or a cry of quarrel. Possibly a cry of grief at some such 
loss as this. 

In country places you may hear the frightened squeal of a 
rabbit, changing to agony as the trap closes. Then the august 
silence of grass and trees and night. Nature, red in tooth and 
claw. Here, too, just behind the Crescent, human beings, and 
nature busy among them; fate unseen and terrible, striking in 
the darkness. A cry of terror, of agony — silence eternal, the 
tragedy once done. 

In the great house, to the rich man; in the hovel, to the 
poor man. In the Crescent, to the good man; in the slum, 
perchance to the bad man. “One event happeneth to them all 
. . . For that which bef alleth the sons of men befalleth beasts ; 
even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the 
other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no 
pre-eminence above a beast : for all is vanity. All go unto one 
place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” 

Mr. Muttleboy came into the library and, ignoring Ledgar, 
knelt down. Ledgar came out quietly and went downstairs. 
The maid had just brought in a tray with tea and biscuits. 
She opened the shutters on a new day. Haddock for break- 
fast, thought Ledgar. On Tuesday, always haddock. 

The clock tick ticked. Another gone; now it had an old 
man’s life to tick out. 

Mr. Muttleboy had his tea, and went up again to his own 
room. There were many letters to write, and more telegrams. 
Very soon the first relatives would arrive. 

Ledgar went back into his bedroom. He took up the Bible ; 
it opened at Ecclesiastes. 

“Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; 
all is vanity. What profit hath a man of all his labor which 
he taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and 
another generation cometh : but the earth abideth for ever. The 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 129 

sun also riscth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his 
place where he arose. The wind goeth toward the south, and 
turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, 
and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. All 
the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the 
place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. 
“All things are full of labor; man cannot utter it . . . 
The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that 
vrhich is done is that which shall be done : and there is no new 
thing under the sun. Is there anything whereof it may be 
said. See, this is new ? it hath been already of old time, which 
was before us.’* 

What the Preacher said in Jerusalem, the poet said among 
his Persian roses, century upon century gone by. And still 
the centuries passed; and still the same cry rose from the baf- 
fled, puzzled heart of man. 

Only one grain of the unnumbered sands, tossed and lost by 
the winds; only one drop of the ocean, caught up and evap- 
orated; only one leaf of the forest, fallen at the chill breath 
of winter — old Mrs. Muttleboy, lying with covered face under 
her sheets. Closed the eyes that had looked on him with kind- 
ness; silent the lips that had talked, and kissed him; still the 
hands that had done him little offices. She lay under seas of 
silence. 

And, now that he had time to think connectedly, this 
thought struck him like a blow : was he the cause ? 

“Apoplexy,” Dr. Thornton had said, “a sudden shock, or 
the steak pie she had at supper.” Had his conduct, disordering 
the placid, familiar routine of her life, caused her death? An 
uncomfortable suggestion, to be thrust away. But it fright- 
ened him. No! noil noil! “Or the steak pie at supper. I 
told her not to take it,” said Dr. Thornton. 

Grim touch of irony, that fate, dealing its inevitable, heart- 
less blow, should choose this weapon. 

(How funnily she breathed when she was dying. He must 
remember that.) He thought of this as epitaph: 


130 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Eliza Muttleboy 

Beloved Wife of Abinadab Muttleboy 
Died of Steak Pie 

Queer thing to stop all that machinery ,* to draw blinds down 
forever over eyes; to keep tongue from speaking, brain from 
thinking, limbs from walking, hands from working, ears from 
hearing. Queer thing to cry “Halt!” — forever, to the smooth 
current of that married life. Was she somewhere else? Was 
there a she, not that body growing ice-cold in the great room 
underneath? Uncle Ah thought so. Dr. Thornton, chatting 
with him in the library, had often scoffed at the idea. “A man 
of your intelligence, Muttleboy! Survival of personality after 
death? Rot, my dear fellow, rot. When you’re dead, you’re 
done with. It’s over. Death’s too common an incident. Try 
and realize the bigness of things, and how small you are. Men 
live and they die. Animals live and they die. Eyes, ears, 
limbs — ^just the same. No, no; don’t talk to me like that. 
You’re just thirty years behind the times. Birds live and die; 
lizards live and die; lancelets, gnats, daddy longlegs. Human 
conceit tells that pretty fairy tale about survival and a happy 
everlasting. You should rise above it. You’re just a big 
daddy longlegs with a developed brain ; you live a little longer ; 
winter come? — out you go. There are more waiting to come 
in. I’ve cut up scores of men in the dissecting room, and you’ve 
not seen the inside of a single one — not even your own. Don’t 
talk to me. I never found a soul on the dissecting table.” 

“You’d be a fool to look for one there,” said Uncle Muttle- 
boy rather smartly. 

But Dr. Thornton had cut scores of people up. He had 
seen scores of them die, too. He ought to know. 

“Oh, it’s an awful puzzle!” thought Ledgar. He wished 
he hadn’t thought about — about the shock, though. 

He flopped down on his knees and prayed; or thought he 
prayed. It was not simply the “Our Father,” of his child- 
hood. In his own words he addressed God, begging Him that 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 131 

his actions might not have caused this death, asking Him to 
console his uncle (But then wasn’t it God who killed his 
wife? And couldn’t He have saved her?), entreating Him 
for pardon, for wisdom, for help. . . . He felt relief; less 
terrible depression. 

But when he looked out again over the garden, a shrill 
cry rose again from the canal bank. Not infrequent, these; 
people were always fighting there. He had heard such cries a 
hundred times. But this morning . . . 

And a bird flew past, carrying a worm. 

In the woods, hawks preyed on birds; stoats, on rabbits; in 
the deserts, lions on deer; tigers were in the jungle, wolves 
on the steppe, pike in the river, sharks at sea. Nature red in 
tooth and claw. And man helpless before all forces; to be 
caught and played with like a mouse, to be snared, to be sawn 
asunder by the teeth of sharks. Fire would burn him; water 
drown him, the avalanche crush him, the sands submerge him. 
Everywhere, blind, relentless, resistless elemental Force. 

God? A loving Father? 

“Oh, but you are awfully cruel, you know,” he said to the 
Creator before whom he had just kneeled. 




BOOK II 


CHAPTER I 

M r. JELF, the head of the Loss Department, had been 
described by Perrin as ‘*not a bad sort, but old- 
maidish.’^ He was in the early forties; a spruce man, 
always immaculately dressed, with a small, dark mustache 
and an appearance that might perhaps be described as “his- 
toric”; that is to say, he could have been encountered without 
surprise in company with John Inglesant, and would not have 
looked a stranger in some Italian Palazzo of the cinquecento. 
He was fairly well liked, although he had little to say to any- 
one in the office. Among most of the men he had a reputation 
of being “pi.” He was not pious in the sense understood by 
that circle in which Ledgar had spent his early life. Once, 
when a careless office boy left a short file on his chair, his lan- 
guage startled and amazed the whole office; old Massey was 
whooping and burying his head nearly all the afternoon. The 
politician who reduced a big virago fishwoman to tears by 
calling her an “isosceles triangle” — she had “been called a 
great many things, but no one had ever called her that before” 
— had not a more extensive vocabulary. It included Spanish, 
Italian, French, and Latin words. There would have been 
Japanese if that language had afforded any. In a sense it was 
refined bad language. . . . Frequently he brought to the office 
heavy volumes of sermons and theology, or church, and even 
chapel, magazines; on the other hand, you would come sud- 
denly upon him reading Boccaccio, Le Sage, or Voltaire. 
It was a little difficult to place him. Ledgar rather liked 
him; now and then they had exchanged a few words about 
books. 


133 


134 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

On the day after Mrs. Muttleboy’s funeral, Ledgar went 
into Mr. Jelf’s cubicle to ask his advice. They had buried 
Aunt Eliza by the bronze clock in the packed cemetery where 
her child lay. Soon a granite monument would stand there. 
There had been free black gloves and free hatbands for the 
mourners, and a cold collation in the dining-room. Then the 
mourners trooped into the drawing-room, and, seated stolidly 
on red plush ottomans and chairs, listened to the reading of 
the will. 

Mrs. Muttleboy’s three sisters and two brothers-in-law were 
there ; Mrs. Pound, whose husband was a manufacturing drug- 
gist in a large way ; Mrs. Curtis, wife of a bank manager ; and 
Miss Amelia Hodson, the youngest and sprightliest of the 
sisters, who had never married in consequence of an unfortu- 
nate love affair with a young actor. Mr. Muttleboy’s own 
family was represented; and Mr. Dunstan had come over 
from Came Bay. Mrs. Muttleboy’s only brother, Joseph, of 
course was present, with his wife and eldest son. He was a 
mean-looking little man, whose once sandy whiskers were now 
plentifully streaked with white. He had not profited by the se- 
verity of his early training ; his father’s strictness had reappeared 
in him as petty bullying and nagging; he was always sponging 
on his wealthier sisters, and had a reputation of being a man 
with a keen eye to the main chance. 

His wife wore the habitual look of a frightened rabbit. She 
had borne him a large family; this had exhausted her; when 
he was in evidence, she rarely opened her mouth. She was 
completely under his domination. Her conversation was all 
“Joseph says — Joseph thinks.” 

It was generally believed that Mrs. Muttleboy would cut 
up well. Her father — on the Corn Exchange — had left her 
a considerable fortune; she had saved not a little from the 
housekeeping money of forty years. Mr. Perks, the lawyer, 
rustled his documents, cleared his throat, and commenced to 
read the will. Ah, she had cut up very well indeed — better 
than most of them had expected. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 135 

So much to my dear sister, Mary Pound. 

So much to my dear sister, Sophia Rebecca Curtis. 

So much to my dear sister, Amelia Taylor Hodson. 

So much to my dear brother, Joseph Hodson. 

But the last amount was only half that left to the sisters. 
There was a kind of gasping hush in the room, followed by 
an unconcealed “It’s scandalous!” from Mr. Joseph Hodson. 
But more was to come. He was to have only the interest of 
the money; the principal to be tied down for the benefit of his 
wife and children. 

“Emily, I’ll not touch a penny of it! It’s disgraceful! 
After all we’ve done for her, too ! And her only brother !” 

Ledgar had heard of family disputes over money matters ; 
it jarred horribly when the family was his own. And Mr. 
Hodson was a deacon at the chapel; he had been very bitter 
lately because someone had proposed the adoption of separate 
cups at Communion, and had threatened resignation if the old 
form of common sacramental cup were abolished. The innova- 
tion was unscriptural. 

To my dear great-nephew, Ledgar Dunstan, three thou- 
sand pounds. 

“She must have been out of her mind !” gasped Mr. Hodson. . 
“I’ll dispute the will; I’ll . . .” 

“Please, Mr. Hodson . . Mr. Perks waved a depre- 
catory^ hand. 

There were smaller legacies; to the servants; to the women 
at the mothers’ meeting; to the minister, for a holiday in 
Palestine; old china to Mrs. Thornton, trinkets to other 
friends. 

Aunt Eliza had really cut up very well indeed. 

And three thousand pounds to Ledgar! Invested in the 
Jewin Street business; at five per cent, a hundred and fifty 
pounds a year. 


136 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Norman Hodson, Mr. Hodson’s eldest son — quite a nice 
lad, who did not seem to share his father’s concern — went into 
Ledgar’s room to wash his hands. “I think Aunt Eliza was 
really a very good woman,” he said. 

It struck Ledgar curiously. A good woman! He assented 
dubiously. She was very kind. It sounded rather, though, 
like the “precious creature.” Very kind, of course; awfully 
good of her to leave him that money. Not that it mattered 
very much. Things were on such an enormous scale in the 
universe that a little money more or less really did not matter. 
The old monks knew a sin of Accidie, a very terrible sin, 
which involved scorn and contempt for life, and the pleasant 
things of life. 

It was in connection with his legacy that Ledgar went in to 
ask Mr. Jelf’s advice. 

“I’ve been wondering, sir, whether it would be better if I 
left the office. I’ve just had a legacy left me — not very much; 
about a hundred and fifty a year. But it would be sufficient 
to enable me to give up my time to literary work. That seems 
to be what I’m best fitted for. I’m really not much good in 
the office.” 

Mr. Jelf was writing. “No, you are certainly not,” he said. 
“I’ve come across a good many inefficient clerks; I doubt 
whether I have met anyone quite so bad as you!” He blotted 
his paper, and swung round. His severity was evidently not 
meant to rankle. 

“You want my advice? Well, it seems to me rather a 
serious matter; not to be dismissed in a couple of minutes. 
Everything depends on what your gifts as a writer happen 
to be. I’ve had two or three young men come to me about 
literary work; and the conviction of genius does not always 
imply the possession of so rare a gift. Most of them seem 
convinced that they have genius which publishers are too fool- 
ish to recognize. You know Swift’s men born with a peculiar 
mark, one or two, I think, in a generation, who could not die ? 
i fancy that is a parable of genius . . . Most unhappy men 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 137 

they were. Unless you have cither genius or unusual talent, 
I think that you would do better by staying at the office, and 
putting a little more energy into your work there than you do 
at present. Otherwise you may drift into an idle and shiftless 
life on your hundred and fifty.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Ledgar. “I’ll think it over.” 

It was not very encouraging. But as he was turning away, 
Mr. Jelf said, “Are you doing anything tonight? Come and 
dine with me if you have nothing better to do. Very well. 
Marlow’s Inn; you know my address. About seven o’clock, 
then.” 

A little before seven Ledgar entered a cobbled courtyard 
through a fifteenth-century gateway; made his way up rickety 
stairs; and at last discovered Mr. Jelf’s name painted in white 
upon the wall. An old woman, who had the appearance (no 
doubt an optical illusion) of standing on one leg, showed him 
into a room the arrangement and furnishing of which at once 
appealed to him. The room was empty, and he had time to 
examine his surroundings. The walls were in pale green dis- 
temper. At first glance he thought the pictures would be pre- 
Raphaelite. Curiously, there were, when he came to examine 
them, none by Rossetti, by Millais, or by Burne-Jones. There 
was Watts’ “Dweller in the Innermost,” and Holman Hunt’s 
“Finding of Christ in the Temple.” The face of the mother 
of Christ reminded him faintly of Winnie Campion. Over the 
mantelpiece was a small reproduction of the Parthenon frieze. 
Several of the pictures were reproductions of old masters, 
mostly Italian ; one or two Spanish — a beggar boy by Murillo ; 
a Dutch interior, with boors drinking, sunlight on white tiles, 
a dog lapping water. There was a small statuette after Thor- 
waldsen; some water colors of Italy; fragments of the Sis- 
tine frescoes reproduced. And Monna Lisa, by Leonardo da 
Vinci. 

On a broad shelf under the window — a shelf which, cleared 
and cushioned, made an admirable window-seat — were maga- 
zines and books; but the bulk of Mr. Jelf’s small library was 


138 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

housed in two glass cabinets. Ledgar noticed that the books 
had been carefully chosen with a view to economy in space; 
favorite works, evidently; there was no complete set of any 
writer. “David Copperfield,” “Great Expectations,” “A Tale 
of Two Cities,” and “Pickwick” represented Dickens. Of 
Scott’s works, “Ivanhoe,” “Quentin Durward,” “Kenilworth,” 
and “The Lady of the Lake.” Of Thackeray’s, “Vanity 
Fair,” “The Newcomes,” “The Four Georges,” “Esmond.” 
“Prince Otto,” “New Arabian Nights,” and “Virginibus Puer- 
isque,” by Stevenson. India paper editions these . . . There 
was Borrow’s “Bible in Spain” next to “Lavengro.” Close 
by were “Rab and His Friends”; De Quincey, and Sir Thomas 
Browne’s “Religio Medici”; Lamb’s “Essays”; “Tristram 
Shandy” and “The Sentimental Journey.” A few more mod- 
ern writers — Thomas Hardy, Harland, Gissing, Meredith. 

He noticed several books in foreign tongues. Greece was 
represented by Homer and Aristophanes; Rome by Catullus 
and Horace; Italy, Boccaccio and Dante; France, “Gil Bias,” 
“Les Trois Mousquetaires,” “Contes de Lundi”; “Le Peau de 
Chagrin” and “Pere Goriot,” by Balzac; Spain of course by 
“Don Quixote.” There were a number of theological works 
side by side with works on evolution. Spurgeon’s sermons 
were next to Huxley’s “Essays.” 

A dozen volumes of poetical works. 

On a chair “Romola” lay open. 

“Well, here you are. Looking over my books?” 

“I say, this is an awfully jolly room. I could spend a year 
here with those books of yours. Jolly view from this window 
too; all those old red roofs.” 

“Glad you like my taste. Do you play? I had this made 
from an Arts and Crafts design . . .” Mr. Jelf sat down at 
the piano. He had a light touch, and played selections that 
seemed to go well with the room and its contents: Grieg, 
“The Wedding March” and “Peer Gynt.” “Hansel and 
Gretel,” “Pagliacci,” “The Pilgrims’ March” . . . Then he 
struck a few chords and began to sing, rather dreamily. It 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 139 

was a song of Heine’s; two grenadiers who heard in exile of 
Napoleon’s death. “The Emperor, the Emperor is dead.” 

Ledgar’s spirit leapt up in harmony. Ah, how he had 
wanted to be Bonaparte. . . . 

“Well, let’s go in to dinner.” Not a big dinner, but good. 
Rhine wine. Coffee more delicious than any Ledgar had tasted. 
Cigarettes. Then a cigar. Kirschwasser. 

“I say, I think you’re jolly lucky, Mr. Jelf.” 

“Lucky? I don’t know. I believe I’m supposed to have 
fairly good taste, if that’s what you mean. And I think life’s 
worth while ... You know, Dunstan, if you’ll allow me to 
speak plainly to you — we’re not in the office, of course, now — I 
think the trouble with you is that you dont think life’s worth 
while. It doesn’t interest you. You won’t let yourself go. 
. . .You give me the impression of a man who’s drifting 
through life.” 

“I suppose I do,” said Ledgar. “But then . . .” 

“Well?” 

“I expect I’m in a different position from you. I mean, 
I haven’t quite had your opportunities. I was brought up very 
strictly. Baptist, my people are; old-fashioned, early Vic- 
torian kind of training. Do you know what pictures we have, 
for instance, at my uncle’s? Biblical, nearly all. Then the 
books — Manton’s sermons; one shelf full of them. And texts 
on the walls. ... It cramps you, somehow ; takes the life out 
of you. You simply don’t care. Now you . . .” 

“Well, now I . . .” said Mr. Jelf smiling. “You’ll prob- 
ably be surprised to hear that my father was a Baptist.” 

“No?” 

“Really. At one time. What they call, I believe, a hard- 
shell Baptist; quite the old style. That was in America. He 
drifted a bit, later on; backslid, I think they call it. Of 
course in America it’s not unfashionable to be a Baptist. I 
forget the figures; I believe there are about six million of 
them.” 

“That makes rather a difference.” 


140 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“I dare say. Still, there were the old observances all the 
same; strict rules about Sunday, theaters, drink, cards. He be- 
lieved quite firmly in Hell-fire. And my father wasn’t a fool. 
A good business man, sharp as needles!” 

“That’s what I can’t swallow. Hell-fire. They call Him 
a loving Father; and yet He burns people alive forever. You 
don’t believe it?” 

“Implicitly ... I don’t mean any quibble of words. Not 
hell on this earth. Not age-long remorse. Hell-fire; fire for- 
ever, and something infinitely worse than that. War forever; 
all the universe — seas, mountains, men, beasts, planets — all at 
war to the knife forever against one. I don’t believe in what 
those old divines say about God and the saints gloating over 
the agonies of the lost. They don’t do that. The happiness 
of the saved is not enhanced by the misery of the lost. They 
forget them, that’s all. Hell is the complete absence of God 
— of good. They are blotted out of the sight of God.” 

“It’s too awful. I couldn’t worship any God who let one 
living creature suffer such a fate; I could not.. It was the 
teaching of Hell that made me hate God.” 

“Still, it’s true. You can’t help yourself. You can’t run 
your head against facts. A woman once went to Carlyle and 
said, ‘I am reconciled to the universe.’ ‘She had better,* said 
Carlyle grimly ... I believe that every word preached about 
Hell, by the Fathers, by the Inquisitors, by the most rabid old 
Calvinist who ever thundered from a Scottish pulpit, is true; 
and that it falls immeasurably short of the truth . . . Take 
another cigar. Have you circumcised it? That’s right . . . 
Now look here. Have you ever formed any idea of the 
amount of cruelty in the universe?” 

“A little, I think.” Ledgar remembered his fight with the 
sea ; the storm ; the morning of Aunt Eliza’s death. 

“Take human cruelty alone; man’s inhumanity to man. 
At Urga, in Mongolia, there are underground prisons into 
which light rarely penetrates. In these prisons are coffins 
bound with iron clamps. In the side of each coffin is a hole for 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 141 

air and for the admission of water and a handful of rice. In 
each coffin is a prisoner, very often a man who has been in a 
high position, sentenced for political offenses. 

“They never come out . . . Never. Year after year passes, 
and they lie there, coffined, in the dark; unable to sit, unable 
to kneel. Just cramped up there in the filth of years. Imagine 
a man who Has had what luxuries their civilization affords; 
servants, food, carriages, houses, gardens. He is torn from 
his wife and children, torn from his friends; and buried alive 
until death chooses to release him. No hope. He can’t live, 
he can’t die. There is nothing to kill him. It’s unendurable, 
and he has to endure. That’s hell. You must exist forever, 
but you cannot breathe, cannot eat, cannot drink.” 

“I remember when I was a boy,” said Ledgar, “a mis- 
sionary going out to China telling us about the people dying 
at the rate of one with every tick of the clock, and going to 
Hell. I know how awful I thought it was.” 

“There’s the same idea in ‘The Story of an African Farm.’ 
You know how the boy lies awake, while the old Dutch frau 
is snoring in her clothes; and he, too, thinks the same thing 
about the ticking clock — and he hates God. Most children 
puritanically brought up have similar experiences. I had. 
People generally grow beyond it, unless they have tempera- 
ments. The poet Cowper was worried, of course, to the end 
of his life . . . Society, civilizations, grow beyond hell. When 
a man or a civilization has learned the art of living in tune with 
the ordered universe. Hell is forgotten; educated people laugh 
at it. It is so remote from their experience. But it’s there. 
Underneath all the grafting of pleasant, sweet, kindly things, 
there’s the lurking terror. Under the grass and moss, earth' 
and stone; under the earth and stone, iron and fire. You can’t 
see them ; they’re there. And under man and the universe, the 
everlasting arms of love; but under the love, cruelty — pitiless, 
remorseless, incredible !” 

“But do you seriously think all those millions of people who 
have never even heard of Christ are lost?” 


142 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Of course not. It’s an incredible thought. A man may 
put on the new man in Christ ; but he may put on the new man 
also in Mahomet, in Buddha, in whoever brings him what is 
true for him, in Mumbo Jumbo, or Zeus, or Jupiter, or Moc- 
cus. The Bible talks about others not of this fold; it talks 
about all who work righteousness being accepted. 

“One of the things the disciples were so anxious to know 
was whether few were saved. All teachers, you know, open 
windows in the opaque wall of things, and show the flood of 
light beyond. Christ showed such a blaze of light that His 
disciples, in an ecstasy at destinies hitherto unguessed at, 
were all asking, ‘Who shall be first in this wonderful king- 
dom?’ Would Peter come before Andrew? John before 
James ?” 

“And Judas?” said Ledgar. “I must say Thomas and 
Judas always appealed to me more than any of the others. 
Most of the disciples seemed so much like the Baptist types 
I knew; frightfully selfish about their own front seats in 
heaven — slobbering over their Master — Fm sorry, it’s not quite 
the way to put it. I suppose they thought Judas would never 
get in at all?” 

“I don’t see why. Judas was like one of themselves. Most 
likely quite popular; a sly, secretive, clever man, able to make 
himself liked. You know his portrait in the ‘Cenacolo’? ‘It 
is he! He of whom it is said, Satan entered into him; who 
knew perhaps more than any of them, but who would not ac- 
cept the cry, that ‘all be one,’ because he desired to be an ‘one’ 
by himself. I have always been interested in Judas. There’s 
a picture of him, I think, at Munich; after the betrayal he 
wanders by himself in agony, and sees a man making a coffin — 
a coffin for the Christ. Oh, and I have some little thumbnail 
sketches done by a friend of mine. Here they are.” He 
turned to a portfolio. “Rather clever, I think. This is the 
most striking.” It showed Judas, an uncouth, disheveled, 
almost bizarre figure, just before his suicide; flying from man 
and the haunts of man; dazed, absolutely staggered at the 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 143 

realization of what he had done and of the forces of retri- 
bution and of world-tragedy he had set in motion. By one 
kiss! And even the thirty pieces had to be flung back. They 
were nothing to him now; he had lost his soul and nothing 
profited ... A figure not without pathos in its isolation. 

“The Catholic Church says, I believe, that there is no cer- 
tainty that anyone is lost but Judas,” went on Mr. Jelf. “I 
think myself there is one other . . . Anti-Christ. It is ab- 
solutely criminal for people to give children the impression that 
millions are lost.” 

“The Bible seems to suggest a great many. All those pic- 
tures of the Last Day . . .” 

“My dear Dunstan, this life of ours, to use a very vulgar 
phrase, is just a gigantic game of spoof. There’s Dives wak- 
ing in torment; there are the kings flung bound into hell; 
there are the wicked calling on the rocks to cover them. You 
get the impression of a very cruel, very terrible God; when 
really He is too kind to be true. The Church has been col- 
ored by the first impression. Artists have painted from it; 
writers like Dante enlarged upon it. And, all the time, this 
is to frighten one man. To frighten one, to frighten all, so 
that they may avoid being that one. You know the game of 
musical chairs ? The music plays, soft and slow, loud and fast ; 
the players circle, scramble, jostle; when the music stops one is 
shut out of the game. Devil take the hindmost! It’s the way 
of things; the law inflexible — you can’t alter it. Why should 
there be any cruelty at all underlying things? Why should 
man have a backbone? Simply because he cannot exist without 
it ... You seem to, however, Dunstan. You don’t seem to 
me to have much more backbone than an acorn-worm or an 
ascidian. Just a notochord, I suppose, to hold you together 
. . . Now listen to this:” 

He took a book from one of the cabinets — “The School for 
Saints.” 

“ ‘Almighty God no doubt is a good friend, Madame.’ It 
is Madura speaking to Bridget Parflete. ‘But why does He, 


144 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

with His omnipotence, permit such injustice and so many hor- 
rors in the world? 

‘“He could make them cease. But at what a cost! No 
less than our free-will, which, while it makes the misery, 
makes also the greatness of human nature.* ** 

“I have brought you some of my work to look over,** said 
Ledgar. 

“Oh, we were almost forgetting the object of your visit! 
Good man ; Fm glad you thought of bringing these. Now Fm 
to be quite candid. You’re not thin-skinned?’* 

“I want you to say what you think.** 

“Because I mortally offended a man the other day. He 
won’t speak now. He brought me the first chapters of a 
novel. Two lovers were walking out together, and discussed 
books. And then followed a carefully compiled catalog of 
a few of the books they discussed. It ran to three pages. ‘The 
Jumping Frog’ and ‘Sartor Resartus* were side by side; the 
Journal of the Anthropological Society was balanced by the 
Hibbert Journal. He Was quite huffy when I said I had 
never met a brace of lovers who spent their time quite so 
profitably. He said they were exceptionally intelligent and 
cultured people. . . . Fill up, and I’ll look them over.** 

Jelf relit his pipe and spent twenty minutes running through 
the manuscripts. “H’ml” he said at last, “you seem to have 
here exactly the stuff of which every newspaper waste-basket 
in London is full. ‘Early Morning in Covent Garden.* ‘Sail- 
ors’ Queer Pets* ... I dare say the batch, carefully sent out, 
might bring you in five pounds, less postage.” 

Ledgar looked crestfallen. 

“Wait a moment; these verses seem a little more promising. 
Not brilliant, perhaps, but quite passable. Where’s the place? 
And what’s the tragedy?” 

“Came Bay, where I spent my childhood, you know; my 
people live there. The idea is simply someone making a mess 
of things.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 145 

Jcif read the verses in an undertone. 

htchen green and lichen gray. 

On each roof about the bay; 

Moss grown street where childrens feet 
Patter the long hours away; 

O my heart, remembering how. 

Where those golden summers now? 

Scent of roses, scent of hay. 

Where the fritillaries play. 

Crier s bell that sounds the knell 
Of some treasure gone astray — 

Treasure of far greater cost 
On those paths and downs was lost. 

What is written on the page 
Fresh then as spring foliage f 
Flash of foam as, turning home. 

Breakers thunder in their rage. 

Glint of wave and tossing spray. 

Brief as these, my childhood's day. 

Coastwise lights, where sea-birds gray. 

White or black-capped hunt their prey. 

Rocks of weed, where shelled folk feed. 

Tiny fishes hide from fray , , , 

Swift as light, and darting foe. 

Those lost hours flash and go, 

God, Who with the rosy light. 

Painted sands and towers so bright. 

Painted sky and butterfly. 

Gold and purple for delight. 

While each opal pool's aflame. 

One in darkness breathes Thy name. 


146 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Not bad,” said Jelf. “This essay on Old Paris is excel- 
lent. Well written and interesting. You’ve got the at- 
mosphere of Villon’s Paris. Sounds as if you’ve been reading 
‘A Lodging for the Night.’ The opening chapter of your 
novel, too, is promising ... It seems to me that you cer- 
tainly have a gift; if you tried you could do something. The 
difficulty with you seems that you won’t try. You start some- 
thing good; then an idea comes along; you think ‘That’s worth 
a guinea’ — and the work that’s really worth while is shelved. 
You must fight in this world; things are had for fighting and 
trying, not for asking . . . 

“I was talking about my father just now. Well, he went out 
to America without money, a poor man. He got to hear that 
Steinmayer, the millionaire newspaper man, was going to the 
East by a certain train. He spent all the money he had on a 
Pullman ticket, was with him for half a dozen hours, made 
himself agreeable and impressive, and was asked to luncheon. 
Steinmayer’s a queer man, with fads. A man with only one eye. 
He’s one extraordinary custom ; all the people he has about him 
have titles — real titles; French and Italian counts, German har- 
ons, and so forth. But he gave my father a job as assistant sec- 
retary. There was some big financial deal on, and Steinmayer 
wanted to know exactly how a certain firm was going to act. 
My father got on the track of the two partners in the firm; 
bribed a porter to get him the section opposite the one in which 
they were traveling. He pretended to be stone deaf. Be- 
fore long they were jabbering nineteen to the dozen, giv- 
ing the whole show away. In German; thought they were 
perfectly safe. My father brought it all to Steinmayer. 
He had a place on some island near the coast — I for- 
get the name, and told my father to telegraph off to New 
York, from the mainland, without letting anyone get wind of 
what was on. He told the people who kept the launch to have 
steam up ready to take him across, and said she was to be over 
at the mainland again for him at a certain hour. Then he 
slipped down to the quay, and went over in an old cargo boat. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 147 

The men were rather savage when he came down to the launch 
at the mainland to return ; the other people had been after her. 
My father found them all half-drunk. He told me — it’s typi- 
cally Yankee — that he watched the steam gauge, or safety- 
valve, or whatever the indicator thing is called, rise to danger, 
and they took no notice. When it got past danger point he 
drew the captain’s attention to it. ‘Oh, I guess she’ll stand it,’ 
he said, spitting a chew of tobacco out of his mouth. ‘She’s a 
new engine; the old one blew up last week.’ My father was 
comparatively a rich man when he died. Of course I could 
hardly keep up these chambers and travel every year on what 
I get from the office.” 

“And what do you think I had better do about re- 
signing?” 

“I think the best plan would be to finish this book in your 
spare time. Throw over all that other penny paper business. 
It’s not good enough. I tried it for a time.” 

“I didn’t know you wrote?” 

“Very little. Verse, mostly; for literary papers like the 
Spectator, Essays now and then; travel papers, and so on. 
Mine’s a small gift.” 

Ledgar felt that in any case Jelf’s work would be good — 
not great work, perhaps, but certainly delicate and polished. 
The visit was opening windows into new worlds. 

“I always like London at night. That was one of my 
subjects; the night view from this window. One feels some- 
thing like T eufelsdrockh in his tower at Weissnichtwo . . . 
Anything to read on your way back? Have you ever 
read Balzac’s ‘Peau de Chagrin’? Take it, and give me 
your idea of it. I want to see what meaning you read into 
it.” 

“Thanks, awfully. You’ve given me the j oiliest evening 
I’ve ever had in my life.” 

“I’m afraid that argues a dull life. Still — do you know 
Sophocles, by the way?” 

“I’m sorry I don’t know any Greek.” 


148 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Well, a line of Sophocles might serve you as a useful 
motto: 


Bioi^ fikp Kav o fjLrjBtp iop ofiop Kpdro^ KaTaKTrja-oUro 

With the help of the gods even a man who was no man might 
prove a conqueror. Good night and good luck.” 


CHAPTER II 


L EDGAR had never read previously any work by Balzac. 
It was raining slightly, but he found a seat in an 
omnibus, and opened his book. The idea of selection, 
of discrimination in his reading, was new to him. Hitherto 
he had taken books at random; chiefly fiction. Mr. Jelf evi- 
dently exercised thought over even the trifling businesses of life. 
But the visit to Marlow’s Inn had revealed a world hitherto 
almost unsuspected. It was different altogether from the 
world of Came Bay, of the Crescent, and even of Beltinge 
. . . And it was a very pleasant world, thought Ledgar. 

He was soon exploring the most marvelous curiosity shop 
in all fiction. A curiosity shop to which Dickens’s stands in 
the relationship of an East End Marine Store Dealer’s to Alad- 
din’s or Monte Cristo’s treasure house. His imagination was 
spell-bound by the gorgeous catalogue; arms and armor, jew- 
els, ivories, pictures, china, cameos, furniture, missals — all 
that skilled craftsmen in every land and age have lavished care 
upon. The wild ass’s skin was already in the hands of its 
purchaser, when a man opposite — a man with a round, red 
face — tapped him on the knee. 

“Excuse me, sir, I seem to know your face. Now don’t tell 
me; let me guess. Mr. Chittick, isn’t it?” 

“No, that’s not my name.” 

“Then it’s Gibson!” 

“No, nor Gibson.” 

The stranger, looking puzzled, raised his hat and scratched 
his head. “I always thought I had a good memory too. It’s 
a long time since I was in Ebenezer Sunday School, though. 
Let’s see, there was Perkins, Marson . . 

“My name’s Dunstan,” said Ledgar. At first he had been 
suspicious of the confidence trick. 

149 


150 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Ah, Dunstan; hadn’t quite got it. Wasn’t far out, though; 
I knew it was something like Chittick or Gibson. You don’t 
remember me? Tom Purkis, Piggy Purkis they always called 
me; Rogers and Purkis, butchers, 27 Sea Street.” 

“Oh, of course I remember.” Purkis had been in the same 
class at Sunday School. His sister was the fat little girl who 
was one of Ledgar’s early sweethearts, and was discarded for 
anatomical reasons in favor of Winnie Campion. 

“I’m buyer now to Parrott and Podmore. How much do 
you think I make? Guess.” 

“No idea,” said Ledgar. “Two hundred?” 

Purkis bent forward, tapped him on the knee, said “Six,” 
and drew back to watch the effect of his words. 

His pronunciation of “face,” and similar words, quite unlike 
Came Bay, indicated that he was cultivating London English, 
and had not been quite fortunate in his tutors. Ledgar knew 
a German at the office whose English had been permanently 
impaired by his taking Shakespeare, the greatest English 
writer, as his master. His conversation was liberally sprinkled 
with gramercies, good-dens, marrys, and the like; sometimes 
it became far too sixteenth century for modern taste. 

“Know Jack Newport? Did you hear about him?” 

“I was at school with him. He was my chief friend there. 
As a matter of fact I bought a guinea-pig from him. What 
about him?” 

“There was only a line about it in the London papers; I 
dessay you missed it. But the Ashbridge and Came Bay 
papers was full of it. Give it placards with ‘Revolting De- 
tails.’ Funny thing, printing ’em if they’re revolting . . . 
Nesty business. The Newports live in Montacute Street, you 
know; ironmongers.” 

“I know. I’ve been to tea there. Old Newport was a deacon 
at our chapel.” 

“Yes, well young Jack’s their only child; they were married 
late you know; quite old people. They were wrapped up in 
him, but I don’t think they gave him enough rein. He got 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 151 

flirting with some gel, rather pretty little bit of goods, at 
Bartholomews’, the drapers in Stone Street. He’d managed 
to wheedle a latchkey out of the old people, and one night 
when he and Cissie Crystal — that was her name — had been 
on the pier together, he asked her in to have a bit of supper. 
Just a lark, you know; no hanky-panky. Sort of boy-and-girl 
thing ; rather sport to rummage about in the pantry and kitchen 
and all that, with the old parties snoring upstairs . . . Well, 
she had rather a pretty frock on, and I dessay she got gig- 
gling and making eyes a bit while they were setting the cloth. 
He lost his wool, and simply went at her. She screamed — 
only once, it seems; scared, and didn’t think what she was 
doing. Down came the poor old things upstairs. And that 
pleasant boy of theirs (sang in the choir at chapel, looked 
after the libery tickets in the Sunday School) stood in the 
doorway, holding a poker covered with blood and hair. ‘I 
killed her,’ he said, quite quietly. The gel lay there dead 
across the scuttle, and coal and dust all over the room, like it 
might be a cellar. ‘You’d better fetch the police, mother 
and dad. It’s all your damned religion that’s done it.’ ” 

“Jack Newport! But — but what on earth did he want to 
kill her for? Killed, you say?” 

“Dead as a stone. Lost his head, I suppose; frightened. 
Sort of ‘all up with me now; don’t care a damn what I 
do, but I’ll stop her squealin’-feeling came over him, I s’posc. 
His poor old mother swooned right away, and she’s been 
going off into fits ever since. They don’t think she’ll get over 
it.” 

“What an awful business I And are they going to try him ?” 

“Detained during his Majesty’s pleasure. Brought it in 
temporary insanity ... I’m getting out here. Glad to see 
you. Here’s my card, if you’re ever in our direction.” 

He brought out a very large card engraved in ornate let- 
tering and scroll work. 

Ledgar put down his book. Poor old Jack! He tried to 
reconstruct the tragedy, and then to make out the obscure psy- 


152 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

chology of the business. What did Jack mean by saying, “It’s 
all your damned religion”? 

Purkis’s sympathies were clearly, and no doubt properly, 
entirely with the old people. But then Purkis was an easy- 
going, matter-of-fact, business-like sort of person, without much 
penetration. 

Like Ledgar, Jack Newport had a temperament. 

When he reached the Crescent, Ledgar found Mr. Muttle- 
boy pacing up and down the house in dressing-gown and soft 
slippers. He spent most of his time now in wandering about 
the house. It was pathetic to watch him as he picked up and 
put down this or that article which his wife had used or val- 
ued. Once Ledgar found him sitting alone at the table — they 
had meals in the small room now — with his wife’s chair in 
its place, an old green cozy he had raked out from somewhere 
near him, her hassock underneath her chair, and the saucer 
placed near it for the dog: he was pretending that she was 
back. He missed her at every turn; she had made herself 
indispensable by a hundred simple little offices which no one 
else could render satisfactorily. She cleaned his glasses be- 
fore prayers, and found his place in the big Bible. She brushed 
his hat — generally the wrong way — and pinned a flower in 
his coat before he went to town. She cut the envelopes of 
his letters, and indexed them. She played her only secular 
tune to him regularly after dinner, in the drawing-room. Not 
a magnificent performance; just a little suggestive of five- 
finger exercises and Chinese chop-sticks, but he liked it, and 
Ledgar caught him trying to pick it out on the piano with 
one finger. Mr. Muttleboy had aged considerably during the 
last few days. 

When he went to bed Ledgar’s thoughts turned again to 
the tragedy at Came Bay. Was it anything to do with “this 
damned religion”? His evening with Jelf, and the fact that 
his host had also been brought up as a Baptist, made him 
inclined to reconsider his attitude towards the denomination in 
which he had spent his boyhood. And now came news of this 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 153 

terrible business, which brought back all his own questioning — 
all his obsession of cruelty, all his resentment at the cramping 
influence of Puritanism. He tried to reconstruct the crime 
after the fashion of a French criminal process. The stuffy 
parlor in which he had more than once had tea; one door 
separating it from the shop, the other leading to a small 
passage at the end of which were pantry and kitchen. By the 
side of the fireplace, in which perhaps were embers, the poker 
standing; and the scuttle close at hand. Both are excited, 
**giggly>** creeping about and whispering, thinking it all great 
fun. Jack loses control of himself; the girl, frightened, screams 
out; as the feet of the old people are on the stairs, he snatches 
up the poker and strikes her. 

The scream was a death sentence; the turning down of 
thumbs. It was like that marvelous sentence in Esther — a 
sentence holding the very essence of inevitable tragedy . . . 

“As the word went out of the king’s mouth, they covered 
Haman’s face.” 

The story, the most dramatic perhaps in all literature, 
flashed through Ledgar’s mind. There are Ahasuerus, the 
Queen, and Haman at the banquet of wine. Haman is rich, 
powerful, with perhaps only one enemy whom he is seeking 
to destroy. But the Queen accuses him before the King; 
and instantly his position, a minute since secure and unas- 
sailable, is in jeopardy — his life itself in jeopardy. Ahasuerus 
is a just and a good ruler; will not act in the hastiness of his 
wrath; he goes into the palace garden, and paces its walks 
in thought. And the wretched man within throws himself 
on the mercy of the Queen. It is an amazing picture. Esther, 
scornful, pitiless, remembers the case of her people, and hard- 
ens her heart. Everything in the setting reminds Haman of 
the joy of life, soon to be snatched from him; wine ruby-red 
in the goblets, guests and slaves, jewels and the Queen’s 
beauty, the scent of roses from the Persian garden; fountains; 
violet night and stars . . . The feet of the King draw near. 
Panic-stricken, the wretch grovels at the feet of Esther ; implor- 


154 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ing her to intercede, falls even upon the couch on which she 
lies. 

And the King returns from the palace garden to the place 
of the banquet of wine; and sees Haman; and if there had 
before been mercy, it is revoked. What! This wretch on 
whom I have lavished honors, whose life lay but a moment 
since trembling in my hands under the stars — “Will he force 
the Queen also before me in the house?” 

“And as the word went out of the king’s mouth, they cov- 
ered Haman’s face. . . All over with Haman. No more 
Persian roses, the market place, and banquets of wine; no 
more Zeresh his wife, and all his friends. Harbonah, one 
of the chamberlains — ^who has been drinking perhaps, and 
talking with him just before — reflects, “A gallows fifty 
cubits high stands in the house of Haman.” “Hang him 
thereon. . . .” 

Well; there was an Eastern tragedy, in a king’s palace, 
with rulers and nobles as actors. And here was a sordid, 
sorry little tragedy in a small English seaside town ; the actors, 
an old Baptist grocer, his wife and son; and a girl from 
a draper’s shop. He was sorry, with Purkis, for those poor 
old things coming down, startled, in their night-gowns, think- 
ing some danger threatened their boy; he was sorry for Jack 
Newport. Poor old Jack! The insane act of a criminal; 
a brutal, heartless crime, Purkis thought. There was some- 
thing more than that. 

They liked one another; had had a jolly evening; a couple 
of silly, giggling youngsters. She screamed; and “as the 
scream” — well, he killed her. 

To get into the secret he wanted to look at the character 
of Jack; the character of his parents. 

Jack Newport was a dreamy boy; not brilliant, but intel- 
ligent and highly strung. Jolly enough as a rule; good, or 
well-intentioned; likely to go to pieces in an emergency. The 
last thing Ledgar would have said of him was that he was 
cruel. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 155 

His parents were — not Pharisees; they were good and true 
people; but rigid in their righteousness. If they had been Jews 
they would have worn very broad phylacteries. Jack, full of 
life, found himself surrounded on every hand with meticulous 
piety. Exaggerated piety ; intolerable piety. Every word, look, 
and action examined and guarded. The piety that sends people 
to and fro with sleeve-links every quarter, to be sold at auction 
and bought in for conscience’ sake; the piety that will not let 
you whistle on the Sabbath; the piety that labels medicinal 
brandy “poison”; the piety that everywhere scents heresy; the 
piety that flies into berserk rage if someone suggests that, since 
cancer or consumption may be communicated by the ordinary 
sacramental vessels, separate cups should be used. 

“Be perfect, as God Himself is perfect.” 

“Be not righteous overmuch.” 

Ledgar tried to realize the boy’s emotions in the brief mo- 
ment during which the girl’s scream rang through the house. 
How would an ordinary boy, brought up in an ordinary way, 
have acted? 

Jack lost his head. If his parents entered the room, all 
seemed over with him. Explanations would have been use- 
less; his character gone altogether. A lad of stronger char- 
acter might have brazened it out and faced some chiding. Or- 
dinary parents might have listened to explanations. The trou- 
ble lay in the contrast, the awful and appalling contrast, be- 
tween their standard and his. Riding a bicycle on Sunday; 
bringing a strange girl into the house at the dead of night. 
Her dress torn too; damning evidence. If there were any noise 
they would come down. She screamed; at all costs to stop 
her screaming! Not only that — but that the world had come 
to an end for him. Her scream had “covered his face!” 

He took up the poker and killed her. Before he knew 
what he was doing it was done. And then, done for himself, 
he simply flung himself away. The Russians have a word for 
this obscure phase of morbid psychology. Otchaianie. It is 
not infrequent among Slavs; rare in England, and then con- 


156 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

fined almost exclusively to men of genius. It is allied with 
the feeling that makes a man, on a high tower, want to fling 
himself headlong into the abyss. When the devil took Christ 
up into the holy city and set him on a pinnacle of the temple, 
he said to him, “If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down.” 
Over the edge of life, over the rim of the ordered world, Jack 
cast himself down. A normal lad would have faced the music. 
A lad not confronted with a standard seemingly unattainable, 
a standard making molehills of wrong-doing into mountains, 
would have faced the music. 

He could not face it. “I’m done,” he said in effect, “may 
as well end the business. My life’s over.” And so, to those 
two poor old creatures who loved him, “May as well send 
for the police. Your damned religion has done for me.” And 
it was their religion. Not entirely, not exclusively; but if 
it had not been for that religion. Jack Newport would never 
have flung himself away. 

Ledgar, with some diffidence, asked Mr. Jelf to dinner a 
few days later at the Crescent. When he first came to Lon- 
don the old house seemed almost palatial . . . He told the 
story of the Came Bay tragedy. Secretly, he had revoked his 
decision to reexamine his position with regard to the Church 
of his own people. “Baptis’, Baptis’ I was born, and Baptis’ 
I will die,” runs a negro plantation melody. He was born a 
Baptist; he did not mean to die one. The news which Purkis 
had brought him reminded him too vividly of his own mental 
agony. 

Jelf sympathized quite frankly with the parents. “I may 
lack sympathetic imagination,” he said, “but a lad incapable 
of more control than to do so horrible a thing seems to me 
in his proper place in a criminal asylum. No doubt a case 
can be made out for him intellectually. I don’t know. But 
I am quite sure that to treat a crime like that sentimentally 
is a mistake. Could he not have married some nice girl? I 
mean, would his parents have placed any obstacle in his 
way?” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 157 

“No — they would have been pleased, I expect; certainly 
his mother would. As for his father — well, I don’t know. 
Very likely immensely pleased, and yet pretending to be dis- 
pleased. There was one man I knew at the chapel; his son 
was about thirty, earning good wages; he got engaged to a 
quite nice and suitable girl. And the father’s only comment 
was ‘I don’t see how I could have prevented it.’ ... It’s a 
particular, dour Puritan type; perhaps not confined to Puri- 
tanism. They give up so much; they deal so much in pro- 
hibitions ; it becomes a habit to attempt prohibition everywhere. 
It acts disastrously on certain natures.” 

“I know,” said Jelf. “Still, it’s not exactly a common thing, 
even in Baptist circles, for young men to leave the dead bodies 
of girls about on the carpet in the middle of the night, and 
then to request their parents to hand them over to the execu- 
tioner ... I had my own experience of Nonconformity; not 
quite such an experience, I suspect, as yours, but I went through 
something. Intellectually I believe the Baptists get as near 
absolute truth as any. Taking the Bible as their guide — a 
book which, whatever its inconsistencies, is certainly in a spe- 
cial sense the Word of God — they seem to me to carry out 
its teachings and injunctions as closely as any body of be- 
lievers; even (it is an unimportant matter) in immersion they 
seem right; Christ and Naaman entered the river; the idea 
of complete immersion, too, seems to me to hold a very im- 
portant spiritual truth. Of course they are often terribly nar- 
row. Nearly right themselves, they cannot see that truth has 
many facets . . . There is no question about the amount of 
mental suffering the narrowness of Nonconformity has caused, 
especially to children. I do not call myself a Nonconformist, 
because if I worship at all in any building, my nature seems 
to demand a form, more esthetic — I do not like the word 
— less austere and plain in its externals. But I am in sym- 
pathy with them. And yet I feel convinced that no re- 
ligion or form of religion in the history of this world, not 
even the most primitive, the most barbaric, the most cruel. 


158 the Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

has added so much unspeakable suffering to the misery of man.’^ 

“Then if religion is meant to afford comfort to man, what 
excuse can be given?’* 

“The excuse given by Christ: that He came to bring a 
sword. The excuse that men fight, murder, rob, hunger,- thirst, 
face the perils of beast and man for a stone like the Koh-i-nor 
or the Cullinan, and will not fight or suffer for paste or glass. 
There’s the excuse . . * Have you finished the Teau dc 
Chagrin’? What do you make of it?” 

“I suppose in some way it’s an allegory of life. That in- 
dulgence leads to ultimate suffering and loss. I’m not quite 
clear. It’s a fine story.” 

“A fine story and nothing more, I suppose, to many who 
read it. Some of the descriptions are Oriental in their lavish- 
ness of detail. Balzac certainly meant something more than 
a story when he wrote of the young man who bought a wild 
ass’s skin which shrank with each gratified desire until at 
length there was nothing left, and he was ruined utterly; 
a man dying in misery and squalor.” 

“What do you read into it?” 

“I think it is an allegory of the soul of man. The Bible 
says that God is a Trinity, and made man in His own image. 
‘Cold Christ and Tangled Trinities.’ Have you ever tried 
to unravel the tangle of the Trinity?” 

“I never made any attempt. The thing seems to me ut- 
terly incomprehensible. One God, three Gods, the same and 
yet distinct. The whole thing is so utterly absurd. I sup- 
pose the wranglings of theologians have evolved it, and fixed 
it in a creed.” 

“There’s nothing absurd; nor, it seems to me, is it an idea 
evolved and elaborated by man. It is something true, which 
man, without comprehending, has found true in his experi- 
ence. Look here. God creates man in His own image. How? 
Body, soul, and spirit. What is God ? Body, soul, and spirit. 
God the Father is Soul, God the Son Body, God the Holy 
Ghost Spirit.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 159 

“Do you make a distinction between soul and spirit? . . . 
It sounds rather like Magnall’s Questions, which we used at 
school.” 

“I believe the two are distinct. The difficulty is there 
is nothing tangible or visible; nothing to be examined by 
x-rays, or placed under a microscope. The body is obvious 
enough. You can see it; touch it; cut it to pieces. It’s the 
case, the cover, which we know something about; changed 
every seven years; thrown away at death.” 

“And the spirit? But why a distinction between the two?” 

“The Bible distinguishes. ‘My soul doth magnify the 
Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior’ — in 
the Magnificat. We hear, too, of evil spirits, not of evil 
souls. And the distinct words, in Greek, for instance, and 
English, mean something — the fact that different words exist, 
even if men confuse them and cannot accurately define them. 
Look out of the window.” 

“Well?” 

“There’s a motor-car just passing. You see the body of 
the car plainly enough. It is driven by spirit; the wheels re- 
volve, the miles are covered, because of the spirit in the car. 
But the man in the car, driving the car, is the soul of the 
car. 

“And the spirit of man?” 

“Something intangible, invisible, which acts on and through 
the body, controlling the limbs, using the brain for thought. 
Capable by itself of misery, but not, alone, of happiness. Im- 
mortal, indestructible. Breathed into man by God, it must 
exist forever in misery or happiness.” 

“The soul?” 

“Balzac’s ‘Peau de Chagrin.’ ‘Ship Aboard the Ship,’ in 
Whitman’s Poem. 

*'But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship! 

Ship of the body, ship of the soul! voyaging, voyaging, voy- 
aging! 


i6o The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

. Meant to be immortal, but only potentially immortal. It is 
given to man at birth in the rough state to be shaped and 
beaten into character. It is the sounding-board of violin or 
piano, the parchment of the drum, the tympanum of the ear, 
the platen or disk of the phonograph. It feels music, joy, 
love; appreciates beauty. Linked with the spirit, when the 
body is shaken off, it enters Heaven; or at least a higher and 
progressive state . . . When you came to Marlow’s Inn I 
was speaking to you about the agony of the lost. It is an 
agony such as no human words, no human pen, can describe; 
the only possible way of forming a conception is to take the 
idea I gave you: all the universe at war with one tiny frag- 
ment of quivering flesh and nerve forever. Oh, that tiny lost 
fragment! fallen from cosmos into chaos, tossed hither and 
thither, plankton on seas of space; at the mercy of countless 
millions of bodies constantly circling in an opposed orbitl 
But the ecstasy of the saved will be in like proportion. At 
God’s right hand are pleasures for ever more. . . . Eye hath 
not seen, nor ear heard . . . You see now the idea (my idea, 
at least) of the meaning of the Teau de Chagrin’? It is an 
allegory of a lost soul. An incomplete allegory; there is no 
hint of the skin expanding with self-denial. It shrinks with 
self-indulgence. A truer parable would be the mercury in 
the thermometer, rising and falling ... A man does wrong; 
disobeys conscience and reason. The skin shrinks. He con- 
tinues to do wrong, reaping a momentary reward and gratifi- 
cation; as the hero of the story had wealth, palaces, banquets, 
women, wine. But at last the skin was worn out. The soul 
is worn out. There is nothing left. It lasts so many years. 
It should have lasted forever. But it goes, and the man is 
ruined. ... You see now the idea of man’s trinity. With 
the soul gone, only body and spirit are left. The spirit, which 
cannot be destroyed, goes on, at last unhouseled, in suffering 
forever.” 

“But, you think, only in one case?” 

“Possibly — probably. I think probably only one is lost. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan l6i 

Anti-Christ; when that unhappy man comes whose life-motto 
is that which the Duke of Urslingen, ravaging with his Grand 
Company the Lombard Plains, bore emblazoned on his silver 
cuirass : 

*'Enemy of God, of goodness, and of mercy** 

“You do not think Anti-Christ has come already?” 

“I think not. Not because no figure stands out conspicu- 
ously as Anti-Christ in the world’s history. In the nature of 
things, in the nature of loss, a man wandering soulless in 
the world — like some of whom Dante, obsessed with the popu- 
lar delusion that many will be lost, somewhere writes — will 
know bitterly his own fate; but he will be unable to convince 
others. We are sealed envelopes; the writing within known 
only to ourselves, and then not completely. The man who 
has lost his soul will be found shut off from the haunts of 
men, the scapegoat in the wilderness, salt and dead sands and 
bones around him, the red filet of sin branding him. In prison, 
perhaps; among the tombs; in the desert place where lepers 
wander among the moaning winds; in an asylum among mani- 
acs. No one will believe him . . . Have you ever thought 
of the number of brilliant men, men sometimes of the highest 
genius, who have lost their reason (in the common view) and 
perhaps ended their lives in the madhouse? Swift, Smart, 
De Maupassant, Cowper, Collins, Nietzsche? Names at ran- 
dom; a few out of many unfortunates. Mary Lamb, a gifted 
woman, kills her mother . . .” 

“That damned religion! Charles Lamb was driven nearly 
mad by it. Co\\T)er . . .” 

“And Swift? Swift, I think, came near to being Anti- 
Christ. He was redeemed by a little love. He hated and 
detested that animal called man; but he loved ‘Tom, Dick and 
Harry,’ and it saved him. Of course, sex was his trouble. 
But have you ever thought of that wretched man, whose fall 
was like a great empire falling, pacing his prison, a man of 


i 62 T'he Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

stupendous genius shown for pence to curious gazers through 
the bars, tearing at his food when those eyes were turned 
away; moaning ‘My best understanding — my best understand- 
ing,’ thinking of his little Stella, as he saw her in the library 
and the sunlit gardens at Moor Park — little Stella, whom he 
loved; and of proud, passionate Vanessa, who loved him? 

“Bullied by keepers, maddened with suffering, with lone- 
liness, with the knowledge of utter loss and ruin — maddened 
also by secret knowledge which no one would believe, which 
he himself could not impart? Have you ever thought that 
perhaps Swift — perhaps these other men of genius — knew some- 
thing, had found out something, which others did not know? 
Through destruction and through ruin, had found out some- 
thing ? 

“Someone has said, I think, of Lucretius, that he had two 
visions of the universe; one drove him mad with ecstasy, the 
other drove him mad with horror. 

“In the East, and in old time, the insane have been looked 
upon, and in some degree venerated, as custodians of secrets 
known only by them and God. We have grown out of that. 
We have grown out of things terrible and joyous in which 
our fathers believed. Out of fairies and of devils ; out of Hell 
and almost out of Heaven. We don’t know. I am sure of 
this; that Swift, a man of colossal genius, knew something, 
had found out something that he could not reveal. ‘I be- 
lieve because it is impossible,’ said Sir Thomas Browne, with, 
I think, Tertullian. It is an attitude of mind that men have 
grown out of; but a saner attitude than many think. Why 
not? Or at least, why not keep a more open mind, a mind 
readier to believe? We see in the visible world striped and 
spotted snakes ; beasts with horns and humps ; beasts with young 
jumping from their pouches; beasts with long hair on their 
heads, with seven stomachs; birds with umbrellas; birds that 
speak and whistle; animals that laugh. We see the ‘blue- 
behinded ape.’ 

“If these beings are in the visible world, why not in the 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 163 

world we cannot see? Why not the beasts with many heads 
and horns, the dragon from whose mouth frogs are jump- 
ing? If some Swift, some man of equal genius, were now 
in a like case — if he were to say that, exploring forbidden 
ground, he had seen and encountered a purple dragon with 
pink eyes, which had eaten part of his soul — ? You think 
Fm talking the rankest nonsense; Fm afraid Fm sending you 
to sleep. What I mean is simply this: Swift may have seen 
things behind the visible world which others do not see; proof 
would be impossible; his statement would be tossed aside witli 
ridicule and contempt. 

“And so Anti-Christ would not be a conspicuous figure, 
known and marked by all. He would be obscure; unrecog- 
nized, at least at first . . . Then how do I think his coming 
will be known? When will men know that Anti-Christ has 
really come ? 

“In the completed history of humanity, it seems to me, 
there are four outstanding sets of events: the Creation and 
Fall, the Crucifixion, the coming of Anti-Christ and Ar- 
mageddon, and the Final Judgment. I think it was Burke who 
said, before the French Revolution, that all his reading of poli- 
tics and history told him that society in France was in such 
condition that some cataclysm was inevitable. It seems to 
me now — thi^ is sheer egotism if you like — that the world is 
on the brink of some amazing revolution, some unprecedented 
catastrophe. Everywhere there is unrest, suspicion, confusion, 
a breaking up of old order and old belief without a substitute 
being found. The change may come in a vast social up: 
heaval in which in every country labor rises against capital. 
It may come as a revolt against dynasties ; as a religious revival 
such as swept over Germany in the time of Luther, over Italy 
in the time of Savonarola, over England in the time of Old- 
castle and of Wesley. Or it may be Armageddon, the world- 
war . . . Conditions seem to point to the last. Armaments 
have become an almost intolerable burden. Nation is suspi- 
cious and jealous of nation. New populations are becoming 


164 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

cramped within confines incapable of expansion. Commercial 
rivalry is becoming a serious menace to the peace of the 
world ... A spark — and the world will be ablaze. A touch 
— and nation after nation will tumble into war, as piled spilli- 
kins fall when an unskillful player touches them. Supposing 
Armageddon were to come, would men trace the cause? 
Would there be any suspicion, for instance, that Anti-Christ 
of old prophecy had come at last?” 

“I don’t see why. It is a subject of which I know very 
little; but it seems to me that nine people out of ten have 
not even heard of Anti-Christ. I have always thought it an 
exploded superstition of the Middle Ages, like witchcraft and 
possession.” 

doubt whether these are really exploded as you think — 
still, those are side issues. I must confess that the subject fas- 
cinates me. Imagine a world at war; war on such a scale 
as this planet has not yet known. Millions of men. find them- 
selves suddenly, without, it will seem, adequate cause, flying 
at each others* throats; blowing one another, tearing one an- 
other, cutting one another, to pieces. I picture them dumbly 
looking from face to face; trying to find a cause; who is 
responsible? Who has done this thing?” 

*‘I doubt whether it would happen. I think some cause, 
some political incident or misadventure, would be at once 
obvious ... I must say you puzzle me a good deal, Jelf. 
You are a complete bundle of contrasts. You were brought 
up as a Baptist; yet you seem to have the mind rather of a 
medieval Catholic. You have the look of, say, the son of 
a Venetian doge, yet in the frockcoat of late nineteenth cen- 
tury. You are a chief clerk in an insurance office, yet you 
speak like a theologian and a politician. What, for instance, 
made you take up this question of Anti-Christ? I forget what 
started it just now. Oh, of course; the Teau de Chagrin.* ** 

“You will find the connecting links if you take and work 
back on what psychologists call, I think, the Freud method. 
The Came Bay tragedy — the Baptist Church — why men 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 165 

fight — the Teau de Chagrin’ — how a soul will be lost — 
Anti-Christ. Quite simple. But what made me bring up the 
subject is that I have been reading lately a very extraordinary 
book, ‘The Forerunner,’ by Merejkowski. I was always in- 
terested in obscure bypaths of church history and doctrine; 
this book has interested me immensely. It seems to me a work 
of amazing genius; a remarkable psychological study. It put 
me on the track of prophecy and legend with regard to Anti- 
Christ. You know, of course, the passage in Thessalonians, 
‘Then shall that Wicked be revealed, whom the Lord shall 
consume with the spirit of his mouth . . . even him, whose 
coming is after the working of Satan with all power and signs 
and lying wonders’ — have you a Bible handy? There’s an- 
other passage ; Oh yes, he writes about the day of Christ being 
revealed, ‘that day shall not come, except there come a falling 
away first, and that man of sin be revealed, the son of perdi- 
tion ; Who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called 
God, or that is worshiped; so that he as God sitteth in the 
temple of God, shewing himself that he is God’ . . . There 
are many prophecies. One of the most remarkable is that 
of Tolstoi, who saw in trance a world-war, after which arose 
a man, who should hold the attention of the world for, I 
think, nine years. And after that he would be forgotten, and 
another figure would arise, who should reconstruct society after 
the upheaval. There you have Anti-Christ, and possibly the 
Second Coming.” 

“I must confess I don’t believe very much in prophecies,” 
said Ledgar. “They seem so often to be constructed on the 
‘heads I win, tails you lose’ principle. Supposing this war 
you speak of were to come about. No doubt, as in the world’s 
other great events, all kinds of prophecies would appear — after 
the event. In each generation, I suppose someone forecasts 
the Final War and the World’s End ... I used to spend 
a good deal of time puzzling about the Bible prophecies. I 
gave it up. It seemed impossible to arrive at any conclusion. 
I have known several Jews, who were naturally acquainted 


i66 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

with the Old Testament prophetical books, yet remained or- 
thodox. Sometimes I used to think that the prophecy in Isaiah 
must refer to the Atonement; and then — well, it seems im- 
possible to say. The marvelous literary form impressed me 
a great deal; you know how it ends, like the thunder of a 
cataract — ‘because he hath poured out his soul unto death : and 
he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sin 
of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.’ It is 
very wonderful ; whether it refers to Christ is another matter.” 

“Still, I think a certain amount of importance might be 
attached to this Tolstoi prophecy. It was revealed (if, of 
course, the account of it is true) in trance, to a good man 
and a man of genius. To such an one, surely, if a revelation 
were to be made, it would be made . . . There is another 
prophecy dating from 1793. This says that when men fly 
like birds, ten great kings will go to war. Now Leonardo da 
Vinci was obsessed with the idea of flight. Man is master 
of the earth and of the sea; when he conquers the air, the 
element of spiritual bodies — soaring in his ambition to the en- 
virons of heaven — Armageddon and Anti-Christ may be at 
hand.” 

“Does Merejkowski consider Da Vinci to have been Anti- 
Christ?” 

“The Forerunner — the John the Baptist, so to speak, of 
Anti-Christ. In his day, of course, Da Vinci was considered 
to be actually the Anti-Christ, and was feared as such. But I 
have brought the book in case you care to read it.” 

“You think, should Anti-Christ come, men would not know 
it?” 

“I think he would know it himself; other men, not at 
first, and until all things are revealed it would remain a 
question of suspicion and strong presumption rather than of 
knowledge ... A stick is plunged into the ant-hill ; the ants 
are in consternation and commotion. Where is the cause? 
Who has done this thing? Someone whom you cannot sec. 
An obscure man thrusts his will into the purposes of God. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 167 

Not an ordinary man; a man of genius, insanely proud, ab- 
normal; bitterly opposed, without reason, to Christ and all 
good. He says in effect ‘I, if I be cast down’ (not ‘If I be 
lifted up,’ as Christ says), ‘will draw all men unto me’ — the 
eyes, the amazement, the wonder of all men . . . Where he 
should love, he hates ... A weak man; not sinning boldly; 
a great sinner if he dared; not daring, a man who does mean 
and petty wrong habitually. Do you remember the epitaph of 
Robert Orange? And with all this, a hypocrite. False to 
himself, to his faith, to his friends. Deceiving everyone, even 
the very elect; self-deceived; not unpopular. It has been said 
of the portrait of Judas in the Cenacolo that it is not the face 
of a wicked man; a face of a man knowing infinite sadness. 
Esau, who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage; Judas, who 
sold Christ for the thirty pieces: there are the two Biblical 
prototypes of Anti-Christ. 

“And so this man, always doing wrong, turns himself at 
last by small sins, constantly repeated, into incarnate hate, 
incarnate evil, incarnate filth. He loses the blessing of God. 
In order to know, he destroys ... You have felt, perhaps, 
the sinking sensation that follows disobedience to conscience. 
It is the sinking of the mercury; the fraying and fretting of 
the wild ass’s skin. . . . When the man’s soul is at last gone 
everything falls to pieces. He thought to stand in the place 
of God. And, a usurper, he is cast headlong down. Instead 
of standing conspicuous to all time, he is ignored, disregarded. 
Alone, dismayed and chagrined, he watches the havoc he has 
wrought!” 

“You think it really possible that one man, by losing his 
soul, could cause such havoc in the world?” 

“Why not? A cog in a machine goes wrong; for a time the 
machine is disorganized. One cog in the vast machine of 
humanity will not do its work; will not perform its office 
properly. Everything for a time is thrown out of gear; and 
God Himself sets to work to repair the damage. The sacrifice 
of one can save all; the sin of one can for a time destroy all. 


i68 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

You have to realize two things; the immense value in the 
eyes of God of a human soul; the brotherhood of all human- 
ity .. . The sin of one, in the Old Testament, is atoned for 
by the whole community. It is the law.*’ 

“You expect to find your Anti-Christ, then, not a colossal 
and out-standing figure as men have expected to find him ; but 
some obscure being in prison or asylum, waiting for tragedy 
to claim him?” 

“That is my reading of Anti-Christ. A creature shut off 
from humanity by hate and pride; alone, wretched, filthy; a 
pivot on which is to turn the unutterable agony of the world. 
An insect, not even an animal — lower than the animals — ^with 
the intelligence and knowledge of a God ; but with a knowledge 
he cannot impart. It is the privilege and perhaps the supreme 
agony of the Gods to feel unshared emotion. It is his agony; 
if you like, his privilege ... I can conceive no greater Hell 
than this . . . Well, you’ve found me a boresome guest. 
Oh, there’s one thing of which Merejkowski reminds me. I’m 
spending my holiday in the spring in Italy. Why not come?” 

“I should like it immensely.” 

“Very well. Good-by, Dunstan. I gave you when you 
came to Marlow’s Inn a motto from ‘Sophocles.’ Here’s an- 
other of my own as a parting gift. ‘Be perfect, but don’t be 
too good’ . . . Good-by.” 

“I am not afraid,” said Ledgar, laughing. 


CHAPTER III 


S HORTLY after Jelf’s visit to the Crescent, Ledgar 
called at Dr. Thornton’s to consult him about his uncle. 
Mr. Muttleboy 'was breaking up. His wife’s death, 
snapping the even continuity of his life, was a blow from which 
he could not rally. He was too old, too conservative, in a 
sense too brittle, to be resilient. He seemed stunned; some- 
thing had happened to him which he was unable to under- 
stand; a mysterious, inexplicable tragedy. He wandered up 
and down the stairs, into room after room, aimlessly. His 
letters remained unopened; there was no one to cut the en- 
velopes. He no longer read the Times at breakfast; there 
was no one to warm it for him, to share it with him — to read 
the births, marriages, and deaths, or to grow excited over the 
last murder case. Mrs. Muttleboy reveled in these . . . He 
complained querulously that his feet were always cold; no one 
seemed able to warm his slippers properly. He hated to go 
upstairs each night to the great empty room with its big four- 
poster, when there was no friendly face on the other pillow, no 
watch ticking in the other watch-pocket. 

If Ledgar had not taken the task on himself, the bronze 
clock would have gone unwound; Aunt Eliza had reminded 
him regularly of this duty. He still drove to chapel in the 
hired brougham, but he sat huddled in the carriage without 
speaking; sat huddled in the pew. He forgot sometimes that 
she was dead, or imagined that she was still living. Ledgar 
saw him once find the place in a hymn-book and hand it — to 
vacancy. And once, in the little conservatory which you en- 
tered from the breakfast-room, he stood looking at the vine 
and said, “Not so flourishing this year, Ledgar. I don’t 
think we shall have so many grapes. Perhaps it wants prun- 
ing. I must speak to aunt about it.” 

169 


lyo The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Dr. Thornton lived in the end house of the Crescent, but 
the door of his surgery opened on to the main street. This 
resulted in the 'waiting-room being filled with patients who 
seemed to have ransacked all the old clothes shops of London ; 
there was a small gas-stove in the room, and, since it was wet 
outside, the clothes steamed under its heat. Ledgar was not 
sorry to be called into the consulting room. Dr. Thornton 
sat on a revolving-chair at a desk. He was writing with a 
quill pen which scratched and spluttered and squeaked as it 
was driven over the paper; the doctor’s knit brows and clenched 
hand seemed to say, “I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to 
make you squeak.” On one wall was a card for sight-testing; 
on a shelf, medical books, a skull with a felt hat on and a 
pipe between its teeth. Over the mantelpiece, a motto printed 
by hand in large letters announced: 

I MUST NOT BE WORRIED 
Mrs. Brown Was Confined at 5.45 a.m 
I Haven t Got Over It 
Would Youf 

Nearly every day there was a fresh notice. “Visitors arc 
Requested not to Annoy the Doctor. He is not feeling well.” 
“Dr. Thornton regrets' that as he has not slept for 27% hours 
he is NOT IN THE BEST OF TEMPERS.” You could 
gather from these notices not only an indication of the doc- 
tor’s state of health, but also an insight into the domestic 
affairs of his household. Ledgar remembered one notice, based 
on a flimsy substratum of truth, which ran: 

Mrs. Thornton Regrets That she sat on a Baby in the Hall 
The Remains May be Had on Application at the Dispensary 
Moral: Dont Leave Your Babies About 

The origin of this was that one woman, bringing three 
small children to the dispensary, had actually left one of them 
behind. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 171 

“Well; what the devil do you want?” asked Dr. Thornton 
testily as Ledgar entered. “Oh, it’s you, Dunstan. Sit down ; 
I’ll attend to you in a minute. Thought it was another of 
my shilling-with-medicine-and-sixpence-back-on-the-bottle pa- 
tients. I’m writing out a death certificate for one now. I 
poisoned him to encourage the others . . . ^ell, what is it?” 
He listened to Ledgar’s story. 

“Does he go to business?” 

“Not regularly; two or three times a week. But his mem- 
ory seems to have gone. I understand that his partner man- 
ages everything. It is really a matter of form his going.” 

“H’m. Any talk of giving up the house?” 

“He hasn’t mentioned it. But I think something will have 
to be done. I can’t very well leave him alone all day. I 
had some idea of engaging a companion. Of course, I might 
throw up the office. I should not care to do that at present.” 

“It seems to me that the best place would be an asylum.” 

“An asylum ?” Ledgar was shocked at the idea. “But he’s 
not mad. Dr. Thornton.” 

“Who the devil said he was?” said Dr. Thornton irritably. 
“You’re like all the rest of the ‘hoi polloi’ (that correct Greek? 
or is the ‘the’ superfluous?) . Like every other unintelligent per- 
son, then. Who called him mad? Mad people don’t go to 
asylums.” 

“I thought they did.” 

“Stuff and nonsense! Fiddlesticks! God bless my soul 
(it is to be noted that he appealed to two entities, the exist- 
ence of either of which he would have hotly denied), what crass 
ignorance! My dear fellow, out of the twenty thousand or so 
— I don’t know the exact figures — patients in asylums, I sup- 
pose you might possibly find half a dozen or so who are really 
insane. The really mad people are all outside. They shut the 
sanest members of the community up in asylums; people with 
brains, people with ideas, people who are dangerous because 
they happen to know just a leetle more than their fellow 
creatures. I assure you, if anyone proposed to send me to 


172 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

a lunatic asylum I should consider it the greatest compliment 
ever paid me in my life.’* He vi^as so pleased with this state- 
ment, which he seemed to think an excellent joke, that he gave 
a great guffaw of laughter, spun round in his revolving-chair 
like the leech of Folkestone, and then shouted it up the stairs 
to “Martha, my dear,’’ the large, pink Mrs. Thornton. 

“Seriously, what do you expect you’d see if you went to 
an asylum? People with straws in their hair? People shriek- 
ing in chains? Nothing of the kind. People like you and me 
— only probably more intelligent — the majority of them. 
Quite nice, pleasant, intelligent people — in the kind of place I 
mean — who want looking after. That’s what your uncle wants. 
Looking after. Someone always about to see that he doesn’t 
get into mischief. Regular sleep, food, exercise. Nice com- 
pany . . . He*s not suicidal?’* 

“Oh, no.” 

“Damn it, sir, don’t say *Oh, no* to me in that tone, as if 
I’m asking stupid questions. Plenty of people I know are. 
People do miss their wives very much sometimes, though you 
might not think it. I knew one man who couldn’t sleep after 
his wife’s death, until I bought him one of those new- 
fashioned phonograph things, that gave him a curtain lecture 
directly he got into bed, and then snored for the rest of the 
night. One man tried to cut his head off with a pair of nail 
scissors. Oh, and there was Jenks; he tried to commit sui- 
cide with a hot-water bottle. Ever hear of a hot-water bottle 
causing death? No? There is something you don’t know, 
then. A revivalist once — quite a well-known man he was — 
went to a cottage in a storm, and the people, wanting to make 
him very comfortable, gave him a hot-water bottle. Unfor- 
tunately they didn’t put a cover on, and the rubber stuck to 
his feet. They tried to scrape it off, but they had to scrape 
off some of his feet too, and he died of blood poisoning. Don’t 
laugh, sir; it’s an authenticated case, and a sad end for a 
godly man. Jenks didn’t try that way; I shan’t tell you how 
he tried; you might be doing it yourself. Suicide’s as catch- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 173 

ing as measles. I knew a whole family who caught it once. 
Even the baby, and he swallowed the teat of his bottle — and that 
brings us back to your uncle. What he wants is a rest-cure. 
There’s just the place for him about twenty miles out; Can- 
ford Lodge; a country mansion. I know the superintendent; 
ril write to him today. He’ll be quite comfortable there . . . 
By the way, has he any delusions?” 

“No. I noticed once or twice that he forgot Aunt Eliza 
was dead; but of course, that was only absence of mind.” 

“Absence of mind? To imagine his wife’s alive? If that’s 
not a delusion. I’ll — I’ll swallow my own pills. Why, he’s 
as mad as a hatter. I always thought he had a bee in his 
bonnet; told him so, many a time. I’ve seen a good many 
dead people, but I’ve never seen anyone deader than his wife. 
I’ll get him certified tomorrow.” 

It surprised Ledgar not a little to see the ease with which 
a respectable elderly householder, never hitherto suspected of 
insanity, could be stowed away into an asylum. A week later 
Ledgar took his uncle down to Canford Lodge. It was a large 
country house, half a mile from a Surrey village, in the midst 
of woods, hills, and fields. Spacious grounds surrounded the 
Lodge. The rooms were well furnished and bright with flow- 
ers and pictures. There was a billiard room and a small 
library. An old gentleman with a bald head the color of 
mahogany, came up to them in the hall, and shook hands. He 
asked both Ledgar and Mr. Muttleboy after their wives and 
children, and seemed surprised to hear that these were non- 
existent. He shook hands apparently with everyone, attend- 
ants, visitors, and patients. During their visit he contrived 
to shake hands with them no fewer than eleven times. He 
was always cropping up in odd corners and shaking hands. 
The young medical man who showed Ledgar round informed 
him that it had been his principal occupation for twenty years. 
This, and a conscientious objection to wearing trousers in 
Piccadilly, seemed to be the chief reasons for his confinement. 
When at liberty, he had carried his obsession to such a point 


174 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

that he would stop a cabman plying for hire and say that his 
only desire was to shake hands and say “God bless you.’* 
By some cabmen this seemed to have been resented. . . . An- 
other old gentleman in felt slippers walked perpetually to 
and fro with tiny steps, like a clockwork toy or a figure by 
string. He went the length of the corridor from one end 
of the building to another, occasionally shunting into a side 
room and out again. “Wrong way, Kotze,” Ledgar heard 
another patient say to him. “Fve been going the wrong way 
all my life,” he retorted. Once he stopped to tell a story the 
gist of which seemed to be that he had once dived into a dead 
donkey from Putney Bridge. A very stout old gentleman with 
a loud raucous voice was quarreling with a very thin old gen- 
tleman who had scarcely any voice at all. Still another old 
gentleman was playing Chopin’s Funeral March on the piano. 
A lad, repulsively ugly, lay on cushions, foaming at the mouth, 
in an epileptic fit . . . But most of the patients seemed nor- 
mal, as Dr. Thornton had predicted. In odd corners of 
corridors they came across men in shabby clothes who, he was 
informed, were working patients; they performed most of the 
menial work of the Lodge for a salary of tobacco; some had 
existed (like sewer rats) within a radius of a dozen yards for 
twenty or thirty years. . . . Mr. Muttleboy was medically 
examined, and then weighed and measured. He broke into 
feeble tears under the vague impression that this was a prelimi- 
nary to hanging. 

Someone shouted out, “All boots on,” and the patients filed 
out into the airing court. Ledgar, Mr. Muttleboy, and the 
doctor watched them from a window of the drawing-room. “I 
heard rather a witty remark from a patient the other day,” 
said Dr. Chappie. “He was given to grousing, and I heard 
him say to another patient that they were as well treated as the 
Romans in their happiest condition ; they were given bread and 
circuses . . . There’s the circus going round now.” 

An asphalt path completely surrounded the court, and round 
and round in perpetual circle jogged, trotted, crept or ran 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 175 

the majority of the patients. Fat men, thin men, tall men, 
short men, old men, young men, varied as the rats of Hamelin. 
Ledgar noticed that one occasionally touched other patients, 
or stopped to retrace his steps by a few yards, shaking his 
head dubiously. He heard voices. Of course, merely a con- 
dition of the inner ear . . . Was it? What Jelf had said 
about Swift recurred to him. Were there any Swifts here? 
Men, who, by the ruin of their lives, had discovered some- 
thing unknown to others, and uncommunicable. He wondered. 

Dr. Chappie did not quite understand the question. “We 
have patients of different classes, but mostly of the better 
middle-class to which your uncle belongs. Merchants, doc- 
tors, barristers, engineers. Several University and Public 
School men. Two or three men have really been quite gifted, 
but have made a mess of things — through drugs, drink, or 
sex. That man in the center of the grass, by himself, who 
jumps up and down and then preens his whiskers like a cat, 
was a very capable artist. 

“He still does a little occasionally when he is in the mood. 
There’s one picture of his framed in the library; come and look 
at it.” They stood before a small water-color, beautifully 
painted, but the subject and treatment bizarre and even re- 
pulsive. A hideous female, the body utterly malformed, the 
face grotesquely ugly, sat at a dressing-table, looking in a 
mirror. Every detail was most exquisitely done. The figure 
distorted, the face sinister and even loathsome; and yet the 
pleated, rose-embroidered dress of some pale shade of heliotrope, 
the drapery of the dressing-table, the rings, jewels, coins, 
trinket-boxes, ivory-backed brushes, gold-stoppered bottles; the 
engravings and old paintings, the china plaques, the damascened 
dagger, the Chinese fans on the walls; the blind, the incan- 
descent lamp, the cloisonne vase — the mirror itself — were all 
delicately and beautifully done. 

And the woman, in strained gaze before the mirror, saw 
a panther, clawing, snarling with lips drawn over white fangs. 

The idea was self-evident. This was the woman herself; 


176 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

the woman as her Maker saw her; the hidden soul or spirit 
of the woman now naked and revealed ... If the artist had 
chosen to make the face of the woman beautiful, it might 
have been a great picture. Wiertz has carried out a some- 
what similar design; Wiertz, whose genius was surely on the 
borderland of madness. As it was, the picture at once repelled 
by its loathsomeness and bitter savagery; attracted by its fin- 
ished execution. 

“He tells me he saw it in the grass while he was in the 
airing-court, and painted exactly what he saw.’’ 

Ledgar thought once more of what Jelf had said about 
Swift . . . Did Dr. Chappie think he had seen anything? 
Anything actually existing in an under-world, but invisible to 
others? The doctor raised his eyebrows. No; why? Sim- 
ply disordered mentality. A brilliant man gone wrong. Drugs 
and loose living; a degenerate . . . They went back to the 
window. The man sitting on a bench with an attendant was 
a suicidal case; the other day he had tried to fling himself 
under a cart in the grounds. He had an extraordinary mem- 
ory; could recite “Hamlet” and “Othello,” word for word. A 
third man wrote very fair verse. It was not unusual for men 
of uncommon ability to break down. Did Mr. Dunstan re- 
member a line or two in “Round the Red Lamp,” by Conan 
Doyle ? He forgot the exact words, but they were to the effect 
that to find a human being endowed with every divine at- 
tribute suddenly reduced, by a tiny splinter of bone becoming 
detached in the skull, to the condition of filthy and helpless 
idiocy, was almost enough to make a man entirely materialistic. 
Why a man should not be entirely materialistic — why there 
should be anything so awful in the idea — Dr. Chappie did 
not quite know. A little work in the pathological laboratories 
did not tend to make the position so untenable or so repulsive. 

“All inside,” came the call from the airing court. Attend- 
ants in uniform did what was prohibited to ancient kings; 
they numbered the people as they entered. Ledgar realized 
for the first time that, in spite of a certain external air of 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 177 

liberty, they were in a prison. Were there many escapes? 

“Oh, no. Sometimes people make a run for it and get 
over the fence; they are always brought back. An army of 
attendants go in search, some on bicycles; the police, local 
people are rewarded for bringing back any runaway. You see 
that white-haired man, of distinguished appearance, with gold- 
rimmed glasses, coming in at the gate now? He was a musi- 
cian. He has a very curious delusion; thinks that spirits 
brought him here through the air, via Kentish Town and the 
Sahara.” 

“I wonder if they did,” said Ledgar. 

Dr. Chappie looked at him as if he thought his proper place 
was under lock and key. But he ignored the question. . . . 

Yet men of olden time; highly gifted men even of the 
quatrocento in Italy, were convinced that the body was manu- 
factured by the soul. The man’s body was here. His body 
had come probably in a cab or omnibus. But what had gone 
on inside the body? 

“He got away once; broke a window, and went to town in 
smoking-cap and carpet-slippers. He was foolish enough to go 
to the doctor who had certified him and demand an uncondi- 
tional release. Of course, he was sent back. If they are free 
for a fortnight, they have to be re-certified. At another asylum 
he was the hero of a very curious escapade. He was out on 
a walk with a plain-clothes attendant; and they came across 
a constable. ‘Officer,’ he said, ‘I give this man in charge 
for molestation. He has been following me for half a mile, 
and I can’t shake him off.’ Well, you see what he looks like; 
he speaks well; the attendant was just a rough country fellow 
with a burr. They were taken to the police station. Of course 
the statement that this gentleman was a lunatic and the other 
his keeper was too obvious an excuse. The patient was dis- 
charged ; the attendant kept in custody. He went up to town 
in high glee; had a tremendous dinner at a big restaurant — 
wines, cigars, liqueurs — and was returned to the police for 
being unable to pay his bill.” 


178 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

*‘It is difficult to escape from the building itself?’* 

-“Practically impossible now. The windows are some of 
them barred; but none open more than a few inches. Doors 
everywhere are locked, and attendants constantly on the look- 
out. On vitally important doors you will see the notice, ‘This 
door must not be left open.’ Other patients would assist the 
attendants.” 

“But at night — in the cubicles?” 

“Doors locked — locked shutters. An attendant comes round 
every hour.” 

Flowers, books, billiards, grand piano, pictures, easy chairs, 
yet a prison secure as Dartmoor or Newgate. Poor Uncle Abl 

Ledgar’s expression perhaps gave the key to his thoughts. 

“I hope Mr. Muttleboy will not want to escape, though,” 
said Dr. Chappie. “We’ll do our best to make him happy 
here. There are plenty of indoor amusements; bowls and 
croquet out of doors. He’ll find congenial companions of his 
own age to smoke a cigar and chat with. That musician, 
for instance, is a most entertaining man; well-read, traveled, 
with a wide knowledge of the world. There are concerts and 
entertainments in the winter . . . We had one old gentle- 
man here who was taken home for a week-end by his daugh- 
ters. He cried to come back. His home was not sufficiently 
palatial. Ah, here’s tea.” 

They had nearly finished when an attendant came in and 
told the doctor that Dr. Mortimer would want the room at 
half-past four for his students. A brake filled with young 
men was at the main entrance when they left the drawing- 
room. They crowded the hall, laughing and talking. All 
had note-books. On benches sat patients in various stages of 
dejection, waiting to be exhibited as specimens. 

Ledgar caught a few words of conversation. One was tell- 
ing another of an operation he had recently seen performed; 
the cortical faradization of a monkey’s brain. He caught such 
words as “lenticular nucleus,” “Rolandic area,” “Spirochaeta,” 
“Lintz projector.” 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 179 

Specimens, these lunatics; with brains like monkeys, which 
somehow had gone wrong. He remembered Jelf’s illustration of 
the motor-car. 

If the works were wrong, the machinery out of order, 
the car would not run. If the spirit in the car was out of 
order — if the working parts were in order, and there was no 
spirit in the car — the car would not run. If the man were not 
in the car, to start it and control it, the car would not run. 

Students and doctors alike seemed to think that there was 
only the machinery. Laboratory work put anything else out 
of the question. 

Which was the more reasonable explanation — car or mon- 
key’s brain? Yet they were all honorable men — honorable 
men and wise men. He retained not a little of his boyish 
reverence for doctors, who knew all that was inside a man. 

“Will you come with me? Mr. Muttleboy spends his first 
day or so at what we call ‘the bottom end,’ under observa- 
tion.” 

A door was unlocked, and they passed into a passage. 
Oleographs were on the walls, and on one side were cubicles. 
At the sound of a scuffle behind them, Ledgar turned his head 
to see a refractory patient in the grasp of two attendants, who 
were hurrying him towards the corridor. 

At the end of the corridor were two rooms, furnished more 
plainly than the others. The floors were covered with lino- 
leum, and cheap pictures were on the wall. Ledgar had no- 
ticed when the patients trooped into the airing-court that a 
<lejected, disheveled little procession had issued under the 
charge of attendants from a side door in the building. Some 
were hatless; some without collars and with boots unlaced; 
one had his coat turned back to front; the clothes of two or 
three were in rags. A few of these — “special,” suicidal cases 
or refractory cases — were those he had seen sitting on benches 
wdth attendants, or pacing under watchful eyes within a radius 
of a dozen yards. 

An almost intolerable din was in his ears. Here, then, at 


i8o The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

last seemed realized his concept of a madhouse, which Dr. 
Thornton in the snug seclusion of his consulting-room had ridi- 
culed. The patients sprawled or sat on plain benches, or on 
leather-covered chairs. One was kneeling with eyes closed — 
a young man, so thin that the outlines of his skeleton showed 
plainly through his clothes; now and then he bowed himself 
to the ground; he seemed to be in agony, and cursed his 
father and his mother between sobs. Another youth stood 
cataleptic, arms raised, legs curiously twisted. Into one of 
the rooms opened a padded-room, in which a man in canvas 
suiting lay huddled on a mattress. Kipling writes of a purring, 
spitting Russian. This man cursed God in purring, spitting 
English; venomously he spat out hate of the Creator and of 
mankind. When he saw Ledgar’s eyes upon him, he burst 
out suddenly, “Red hot dogs and cats! Red hot dogs and 
cats!” Did he see such things? Was it only the cry of a 
disordered brain, or in that underworld of hate, of unspeak- 
able agony, did he see such things as no one else could see? 
Ledgar had been once to a play, where a man on the stage 
was invisible to all but one, and to the audience. The man 
who saw pointed constantly, appealed desperately to the oth- 
ers. Could they not see? They must see that this man was 
there ? 

“Mental disorder,” said Dr. Chappie. “The other day 
a man — highly educated, public school and university — gripped 
my arm in the hall, and said in an agitated voice, ‘Look there 
— there it is! Mind, it’s coming this way! It’s behind the 
bench now. Ah, look out, it’s coming. Surely you can see 
it! You must see it!’ Then he stamped hard on the stone 
floor, again and again, as if trampling something to death; 
‘Now it’s dead,’ he said, in a tone of relief. Sheer delusion, 
of course.” 

But the young man at Dothan saw horsemen and chariots 
of fire upon the mountain, when his eyes were opened. Was 
that also a delusion? 

Dr. Chappie spoke to one patient, a journalist once well 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan i8i 

known in Fleet Street; a man of about forty-five, with a face 
still striking in spite of clear evidence of dissipation. “Fm 
sorry to say Fve just heard that your mother is dead, Mr. 
Wilkinson.” 

“No, is she?” He sat back in his chair and roared with 
laughter. 

“Do you realize what I am saying? Your mother died yes- 
terday.” 

“Really?” He spoke in a shrill, almost falsetto, voice. 
“You don’t convey your information quite so elegantly as 
you might, Doctor. No doubt you know the story of the 
working man deputed for his tact to break the news of a fatal 
accident to the widow. ‘Your husband’s cut himself, Mrs. 
Smith.’ ‘Oh — has he cut himself badly?’ ‘Yes, he’s cut his 

head off.’ Or the baboo who wrote that the hand 

that rocked the cradle had kicked the bucket, on a like melan- 
choly occasion to my own.” He laughed shrilly. ‘Haven’t 
a fag about you, have you. Doctor? Then damn you for 

a ’ the rest unprintable. An intelligent man, this, 

speaking with an educated accent. . . . Another man, his face 
covered with a horrible skin disease, sat by the fireplace. At 
the top of a raucous, metallic voice, he was arguing with an 
older man, who, in addition to mental instability, suffered from 
cancer of the throat; yellow phlegm covered his white beard; 
his neck was swollen; now and again he turned to spit at an 
attendant. 

“I tell you,” shrieked the first man, “twenty thousand men 
stood in line on the Birkenhead and went down with her.” 

“Rot,” said the other, feebly. “Twenty thousand men 
couldn’t stand in line on a ship.” 

“They did ! They did !” he yelled excitedly. “It’s in print. 
It’s in the poem. ‘With twice ten thousand men.’ If it’s 
in the poem, it must be true.” 

“A solicitor once,” said Dr. Chappie in an aside. “How- 
lett, I fancy you’re thinking of ‘The Wreck of the Royal 
George/ ‘Twice four hundred men.’ ” 


1 82 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

“You damned idiot!” (with withering scorn.) “It was the 
Birkenhead, I tell you; and ‘twice ten thousand men.' Fve 
seen it in print.” 

“Not the slightest use arguing with him,” said Dr. Chap- 
pie, who, having learnt that Ledgar was a literary man, seemed 
inclined to be communicative. “He was arguing the other 
day that gamboge was blue, and that Henry the Eighth had 
eight wives. That man with the long nose, in the corner, 
has some queer notions. He’s one hundred and seventeen years 
old, for instance ; he used to keep silkworms behind barbed wire 
for their milk, but gave them up because of their ferocity; he 
has made some curious aeronautical experiments with Portland 
Cement balloons, and other balloons which remained twenty 
years in the air ; he won the Derby with a mare seventy years of 
age — I forget the rest.” 

An enormously stout, tubby man with a colossal head and 
eyes like a golliwog commenced to sing an interminable song. 
It was accompanied with barks, caterwaulings, and imitations 
of the “Marseillaise” on a brass band. He broke off to remark 
that he had just heard that Denmark had declared war on 
Great Britain. He informed the company also that he had 
traveled more than any man present; he had been in India 
and America, which was the next station. America was dis- 
covered by Columbus ; when he found it, there were no people, 
but all the houses were standing — in water — including the 
Bank of Montreal. He wheezed all this out between barks 
and howls. 

“That man has a curious history,” said Dr. Chappie. “He’s 
an epileptic, and thirty years ago he was married in a country 
village. He had an epileptic fit in the church. The villagers, 
ascribing this to demoniac possession, drove him out; he did 
not see his wife again for five and twenty years . . . You 
notice that other man, gnashing his teeth so horribly?” 

Ledgar had noticed. It affected him as slate pencils had 
once affected him at school. 

“He’s a G.P. There are three or four of them here. Men 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 183 

usually about forty. He’ll be dead to a certainty within six 
months. The others may at the very outside last two years.” 

“And the cause? Is it quite hopeless?” 

“Absolutely. They are as much under sentence of death 
as the man in the condemned cell . , . Perhaps twenty years 
ago they behaved as — well, as the majority of young men do; 
and suffered for it. For a couple of years, say, they fought 
down the consequences; spending their money, losing the best 
years of their manhood. Then they forgot. Married; had 
children; lived the lives of other men. But Nature is remorse- 
less. She docs not forget. She never forgets . . . .Some day, 
wife or friends will notice that they speak with a slight slur, 
have nervous twitchings of the limbs, develop grandiose ideas. 
And at last they come here. Very soon that man gnashing his 
teeth will be jerking all over as if every joint of his body 
were on wires ; they will put him in the padded-room to die.” 

“How awful!” 

“Not so awful as it seems, perhaps. Bad for the wife and 
children, of course. This chap has quite a nice little wife; 
bright-eyed, bird-like little woman. In a few weeks she’ll be 
coming to see a bag of bones, twitching all over; unable to 
recognize her; gnashing his teeth; dirty. A decent fellow 
once; no doubt she schemed and angled to get him away from 
other girls; lay awake thinking of him at night; had the time 
of her life on the wedding day and honeymoon; went cycling 
with him (I know they did that); talked to him about the 
coming and training of their children. Well — it’s over. She 
may live fifty years; then her time will come, and she’ll re- 
member what we are looking at here now.” 

“Awful!” repeated Ledgar. “And you think that’s the end 
of it all?” 

“Why not?” The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “It’s 
the way things work. They’ve had their time. Every dog 
has his day, you know; so much running about in the sun- 
shine; so much luxurious sleep; so many good bones filched 
or given or fought for; so many jolly walks with his master; 


184 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

SO much canine love. The dogs bark; the caravan passes; all 
passes. Finis. ^Tirez le rideau; la farce est joueef Ever 
heard the shortest sermon on record? Text, Job v. 7. ‘Man 
is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.’ My discourse 
is divided into three heads: Man’s ingress into this world, his 
progress through this world, and his egress from this world. 
His ingress into this world is naked and bare; his progress 
through this world is trouble and care; his egress from this 
world is nobody knows where. If we live well here we shall 
live well there, and I can’t tell you more if I preach a whole 
year. There are some French lines too, quoted in ‘Trilby.’ 

*Un pen de ’ No, I forget how they go. The idea’s much 

the same, though. A little play, a little sleep, a little love — 
and then, good night.” 

“You’re satisfied with that? It seems a little — a little sense- 
less. What’s it all for? It doesn’t seem worth while.” 

“I don’t know. You simply have to accept facts. A man 
doesn’t bother about his digestive organs until they’re out of 
order ... In a case like this I admit it’s pretty rough luck 
on the wife. But it’s not so awful as you think. Take this 
man, now. A week or two ago he was filling his pockets with 
stones, thinking them gold and diamonds. He had millions 
in the bank. He had a hundred carriages made of gold; 
cricket bats made of gold. He had won two Victoria Crosses 
and three D.S.O.’s. The Almighty had revealed to him the 
fact that he was the most satisfactory Christian ever created. 
He was starting in an hour on a tour round the world. In 
short, he would have told you and did tell you that he was 
the happiest man in the world.” 

“Yet under sentence of a nauseating death?” 

“Certain of it — certain as the man standing shuddering 
before the black cap. But he didn’t know it.” 

“You’ve seen a good many patients die?” 

“Scores of ’em. Old and young. Good, bad, indifferent. 
Some pretty bad, I can tell you; we have most of the deadly 
sins here. It doesn’t make much odds. Sometimes they funk 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 185 

it a bit before the end comes. I remember one old fellow 
who modeled his life on the best-of -both- worlds plan to a 
nicety; Holy Communion regularly, heaps of talk about best 
seats in Heaven, the blessing of God, and all the rest of it. 
Devil of a monk, really, when he was well; told the most 
shocking stories of his past life with gusto, for all his piety. 
He was certain he was going to live to be a hundred. When 
he took ill at sixty, and two or three younger men went off 
about the same time, it suddenly occurred to him that he was 
mortal. Deuce of a shock, I can tell you. He never got over 
it. ‘Jones, I’m not going to die? You don’t think I’m going 
to die?’ I heard him whisper to some aged crony of his. Droll 
sort of old figure; bit pathetic, I thought, standing there in 
his short night shirt with the asylum mark branded on it, his 
teeth chattering and his thin old legs shaking. ‘Afraid you 
are, old chap.’ He went off in about three weeks; no appre- 
hension at all at the end. Forgotten in two days. It’s a 
simple matter, death, in these places. Rather a pathetic thing, 
by the way, about one lad’s death. I went into his room 
about an hour before, and he could hardly speak, but he whis- 
pered, ‘I’ve just enjoyed a drink of water, sir.’ Not bad for 
last words, eh? Gasping for breath, and he’d ‘just en- 
joyed . . .’ We had one old scamp here, an awful old rip; 
been at sea most of his life. All day and most of the night 
he volleyed out filth and blasphemy. If you asked how he was, 
he’d spit in your face. Hit me over the head with a chair 
once. When old Wagg lay dying, I stood watching him at 
the door of his cubicle. I was curious to see whether he’d 
show any fear, and I tapped three or four times at the side of 
the door — thinking perhaps he might fancy it was the death- 
watch or something of the kind ; sailors are superstitious. Not 
a bit of it. He raised his eyebrows a bit; no sign of fear. As 
a matter of fact, death itself is no more to be frightened of 
than sleep, and much less than life. And the actual event of 
death is painless. 

“Yes. A few days in a cubicle or the pad; a friend’s visit 


i86 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

(if there are any friends) ; the chaplain — who’s a rattling 
good sort, by the way, more like a man than a parson — then 
one fine night or day, off they go. Last week I was talking 
to an elderly man, a barrister and editor of a literary paper 
once; most entertaining man; knew half the celebrities in 
Europe. He’s a handful of ashes in a little pot now.” 

Ledgar took mental stock of some of the occupants of the 
rooms who had not been pointed out. Several were physi- 
cally malformed. One had a club foot; one was blind, with 
white eyeballs showing; one had his hair growing in patches; 
one had lost a finger and an ear; one was hunchbacked, deaf, 
and dumb. Most were abnormal, repulsive, animal in appear- 
ance. They were the beasts of Jamrach’s, the Yahoos of Swift, 
the freaks of Barnum, the hybrids of Dr. Moreau. Here 
you saw all the types; the swine-boy; the ape-man with saliva 
dripping from yellow fangs; the monkey-rat man, with wrin- 
kled two-inch forehead, yellow skin, sharp nose; the hyaena- 
dog man; the hippopotamus man with hanging dewlaps, slack, 
open mouth, enormous legs and trunk, and goggle eyes. And 
up and down a corridor hobbled the little pink sloth — not, 
however, a first-class specimen of his tribe. 

Hogarth and Wiertz could have painted; Dore, Cruik- 
shank, Rackham drawn; Swift, Dante, Zola, Sologoub, An- 
dreyef, Gorki described in verse or prose, the occupants of 
these two rooms. Within twenty miles, traffic rattled in the 
London streets. On a clear day you could see the scintil- 
lating towers of the Palace, the drab dome of St. Paul’s. Yet 
of all London’s millions, working, fighting, loving, suffering, 
disputing the ancient questions that men have debated from 
the dawn of time — scarcely one knew even faintly what ante- 
chambers of Hell lay almost at their doors ... It sickened 
him. These creatures snarled, grunted, squawked, whined; 
many were incapable of articulate sound. Ledgar spoke to one 
or two, and was met by faces of blank apathy. A man with 
bent head spat perpetually down coat, over boots, on the floor, 
jabbering some incessant incoherent jargon. Ledgar caught 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 187 

only three or four intelligible words, filthy and blasphemous. 
Someone struck him; he turned screeching in fury like a cock- 
atoo. Now and then he moved his arms as if rowing. An- 
other man was scrubbing a mangy head with a dirty rag; he 
grimaced after the fashion of a Japanese devil; when he was 
addressed, he danced and gesticulated, and consigned the 
speaker to “eternal billions of years” of torment. 

One man spoke in periods ; was alternately voluble and silent, 
each period lasting some six weeks. How did Dr. Chappie 
account for it? He did not know. That was the difficulty 
of mental cases; you could not examine the living brain . . . 
And you cannot put spirit or soul, if such there be, under any 
microscope. 

Dixit insipiens , . . Yes, but what a God, to create be- 
ings capable of such suffering! To place them in such case 
that even the most flagrant violation of law could reduce them 
to such torment! A man was tearing a Bible, sent him by 
friends, to shreds. But as he did it he hissed out, “You must 
find what God wants you to do — you must find what He 
wants you to do — or you get into trouble.” And then, half 
sobbing, he babbled of pictures in his boyhood’s home in the 
good West. A gentleman by birth, like most here; trained at 
a good West-country school. 

Uncle Ab had almost been forgotten, bjit he was watching 
everything with round, astonished eyes. He reminded them 
of himself by sudden whimpering. “Ledgar, why am I here? 
I haven’t done anything wrong. I want to go home, my boy; 
I want to go home. We shall be late to tea, and your aunt’s 
a holy ter Oh, I forgot. Oh dear. Oh dear!” 

No, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Some of them had. 
Most of them had. The deadly sins were here, carved from 
living flesh and blood. Drink, drugs, sex, pride, self-indul- 
gence, accidie, utter selfishness, secret and strange and un- 
named sins. All here. Broken commandments, the religious 
man would have said. Broken rules of proper living, a man 
himself heterodox. 


i88 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Ledgar turned to Dr. Chappie. “Really, Doctor,*^ he said, 
“I can’t leave my uncle in this place. He’s not insane; but 
a couple of days alone here would drive him so. It’s — it’s 
appalling.” 

“Oh, not so terrible as all that,” said Dr. Chappie, smiling, 
and showing excellent strong teeth. He was a spruce, dapper 
man, well-tailored, and with the faintest hint of scent. In 
face of this, he lived his life unmoved, undismayed; yet be- 
lieving firmly that only what was demonstrable was true. At 
Ebenezer Chapel they had said that a man with no belief 
in God and in future happiness and woe must inevitably throw 
all considerations of decent living to the winds. It was not 
true. It was one of the fictions with which Christianity, and 
especially the Nonconformity of thirty years ago, perplexed 
those taught by it, and confused the plain, everyday facts of 
life. Why will people tell children what is obviously untrue, 
to support a faith which is the highest truth ? 

“Not so terrible as that . . . Mr. Muttleboy need only 
be here for a day or so, under observation; it’s the rule with 
new cases. These are, of course, the permanently bad cases. 
We don’t keep anyone who’s fit to associate with other people, 
like your uncle, here longer than a day or two.” 

“I’m afraid even for a day I cannot leave him here. It 
would be sheer cruelty. He’s a man who has been in a good 
position; the death of his wife has upset him. A night here 
might do him irreparable harm.” 

“Many of the people here have been in good positions. We 
had a man here recently who was making six thousand pounds 
a year. He was at the bottom end for months. 

“However,” said Dr. Chappie, “I’ve no doubt we can ar- 
range for him to go to the other end at once. He’ll be quite 
comfortable there; as comfortable as if he were at home or 
in a hotel. I’ll telephone to the Super.” 

Ledgar left Uncle Abinadab fairly comfortable, engaged 
with the musician in a game of draughts, of which he had been 
very fond. 


The Rise of L,edgar Dunstan 189 

The Doctor said good-by, and Ledgar went into the hall 
with an attendant. An elderly man came up to him. 

“Sir, can you use your influence to get me out? I have 
been here for fifteen years. My wife put me away after a 
quarrel. Have you seen the bottom end? That is where 
they keep me; I am allowed to come up here for a few 
minutes between meals. I was an architect, making a good 
income. There is nothing wrong with me, but it is impos- 
sible to prove it. You say you are not insane; and that is put 
down as one of your delusions — that you believe you are not 
insane. If you said you were insane, they might believe you 
sane. It is a hopeless trap. There is no help anywhere. In 
the eyes of the law you really do not exist. I have seen the 
Committee time after time; they are very kind and patroniz- 
ing, but do nothing. I have written letter after letter to the 
Lord Chancellor and the Master in Lunacy. ‘We have re- 
ceived your letter of the such-and-such instant, and regret that 
we can take no steps in the matter.* A few old friends came 
at first to see me; now no one comes. My life for fifteen 
years has been a hell upon earth. Pushed about here, ordered 
about there — and once I had clerks and servants under me. 
Those animals! You don’t know what Fve seen in those two 
rooms. No morals, no principles, no religion, no manners, no 
love. Your food is snatched from you; if you have twopence 
it is stolen — a book, it is torn to shreds. . . . Listen! They 
are calling out ‘All boots on! All down the passage!’ now. 
Then it will be ‘All to supper. All up to bed.’ And tomorrow 
‘All to breakfast. All boots on! All down the passage!’ 
And the same faces, the same voices, the same noises. It 
was that fifteen years ago; it will be that in fifteen years’ time, 
unless God or someone helps me. I have almost ceased to 
believe in God; and once I was a sidesman at my church . . . 
Insanity is the most awful malady in this world, but to be 
sane, and yet labeled as insane . . .” 

“Why are you at the bottom end?” asked Ledgar. 

“Because,” he said, his face flushing and his fists clench- 


190 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ing, “I won’t take things sitting down. I won’t. Some of 
these people are content with this life. I’m not.” 

“He breaks windows, sir, and asks visitors to assist him.” 

“Well, and what am I to do? I must call attention some- 
how to my case. People have been here twenty years, thirty 
years; alive and yet dead. What am I to do? For fifteen 
years I’ve lived the life of a rat in a drain. Charles Reade 
knew what he was writing about when he wrote ‘Hard Cash.’ 
I read it years ago; I never thought then that I should see the 
inside of these places.” 

Ledgar made a note of his name, but doubted whether he 
could do anything. Yet he thought, “The man seems really 
sane; supposing he is so? Supposing there are several cases 
like his; men put away here years ago, forgotten by their 
friends, left to suffer hopelessly? In prison a man knows the 
length of his term. Here a man goes on and on until death 
releases him!” 

The old, mahogany-topped gentleman, who had been shak- 
ing hands at intervals, bobbed up again to say good-by, and 
to ask once more after the wife and children. 

The door opened and closed behind him. He took a deep 
breath. Thank heaven for freedom and fresh air! 


CHAPTER IV 


I N the carriage which brought Ledgar back to town, a 
sleek, Low-Church clergyman recounted to a sleek, Low- 
Church, hen-like old lady his experiences at a drawing- 
room meeting held that afternoon on behalf of a Society for 
converting the French from Catholicism to Evangelical Chris- 
tianity. He narrated at great length, nearly all the way to 
town, instances of bigotry and superstition; the idolatry of 
the Mass, the gross credulity which sent thousands flocking 
to Lourdes and the Breton shrines, the abuses of the confes- 
sional, the ignorance and vice of the Roman priests. “And 
the appalling thing is, my dear Mrs. Pridie,” he said with 
unctuous solemnity, “the well-nigh incredible thing, if we 
did not know it to be true, that this state of things exists, 
not in the heart of darkest Africa, not among the cannibals of 
New Guinea, but less than thirty miles from our own shores.’^ 
“It is indeed shocking,” said Mrs. Pridle. “And, when you 
speak of cannibals, I have always regarded the superstition 
of transubstantiation as only a refined form of cannibalism.” 

“I am afraid you are right, my dear Mrs. Pridie. I am 
afraid you are right . . .” 

Ledgar’s temperament, retaining the morbid more distinctly 
in its consciousness than the bright and happy, could not shake 
off the impressions of the afternoon. A few years before he 
had paid a visit to a friend (one of the senior boys at his 
school) who was house surgeon to a large East End hospital. 
What he had seen there had impressed him in a similar way for 
days. He had gone round some of the wards, where men 
and children, suffering from every kind of malady other than 
infectious, and from every kind of injury, were lying. He 
had seen men who were at the very point of death. In the 
museum he had seen the most nauseating surgical exhibits in 

191 


192 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

spirits of wine; ghastly tumors and ulcers reproduced in col- 
ored wax. Hearing that so many cases operated on were still 
alive and doing well, having left mementoes of this character 
to the hospital, he raised a laugh at his own expense by asking 
innocently whether several embryos in bottle had lived to grow 
up. . . , He had spent half an hour in the receiving room, 
crowded with Jews and London’s submerged tenth; noisy with 
jabbered Yiddish, reeking with the odors of stale clothes and 
unwashed humanity. He had seen the human wreckage of 
a great city brought in on stretchers; victims of street acci- 
dents and brawls. He had gone into the operating theater, 
with its tiers of seats for callous, note-taking students, its 
spotless basins, its cloying odors of anesthetics and antiseptics, 
its operating table, now empty, but often laden with quivering, 
living flesh under the knife. And, worst of all horrors, his 
friend had taken him to the door of the dissecting room, where, 
looking in, he had seen on the tables stiff human forms, shaven, 
mutilated, the arteries marked out by the injection of red 
lead and tallow. Students in smocks and smoking pipes were 
busy with scalpels and bistouries; he saw one, laughing, fling 
a hacked-off fragment of what had once been woman to a 
companion. Once woman! Once man! Moving in the Lon- 
don, working, loving, suffering, marrying, having children . . . 
Aunt Eliza had lain peacefully in her coffin, in the hushed li- 
brary with drawn blinds, at the Crescent; friends and rela- 
tives had looked at her reverently, had bent to kiss her. In 
his prayer at the house, the minister had spoken of the body 
which they were covering upstairs for its long rest as a Tem- 
ple of God replaced now by a new, a beautiful, a spiritual 
Temple. She was human; they human. ‘‘I have ten fingers 
and thumbs and ten toes; the workhouse boy has ten fingers 
and thumbs and ten toes; the Prince of Wales had ten fingers 
and thumbs and ten toes,” said Mrs. Beltinge . , . Were 
these beings Temples of God? Carcases, said the students; 
meat, to be chopped up and thrown away. The living bodies, 
loathsome, distorted, inarticulate, at Canford Lodge? Ani- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 193 

mals, said the doctors; living, human refuse to be guarded, 
controlled, kept from mischief and danger. Living meat, 
which, because it was living, must not be seriously hurt. 

Realizing the danger of his own temperament, he tried to 
think out the position with clarity and restraint. He was older 
than he had been when the weight of human suffering in the 
mass oppressed him without reason. He tried to look coldly 
and with detachment at facts. An ordinary man, a casual 
observer, would have glanced at the inmates of the room, 
listened to the stories he had heard, and said, “Yes, not pleas- 
ant certainly — but your imagination is responsible for nine- 
tenths of the suffering. Most of them do not suffer.” Well, 
was it so? Sealed envelopes, all m^n; but these were shut in 
by coverings quadruply opaque. Beaten by the storm of life, 
waves and winds tossed them here stunned, bruised, without 
speech; what went on within utterly concealed. The doctor 
had admitted it. We can’t find out what’s going on inside 
them. We don’t really know, and there’s *no way of know- 
ing. Ledgar had discovered this from his visit; that of all 
disorders, mental trouble is the most terrible; and that of all 
branches of medical and surgical science, the treatment of 
lunacy is the most difficult, most hampered, most uncertain, 
and most backward. It ama2ied him that medical men did 
not appear to realize this. They spoke so cheerfully and with 
such confidence. Admitting limitations, they appeared so as- 
toundingly satisfied with what had been done and was being 
done. They chopped up human brains and monkeys’ brains, 
knew every cell among their convolutions, wrote great books, 
attended conferences — and, in effect, this was the satisfactory 
position: “We know no more than Adam what is the cause 
of certain symptoms; except in one or two isolated classes we 
can neither alleviate nor cure. But that is unimportant. How 
admirably we are able to classify cases into groups! Not a 
patient need remain without a name ; if we don’t know, we will 
give him one. If we can do nothing else, we can put him 
in a class.” They had examined Uncle Ab’s eyes and jerked 


194 '^he Rise of Red gar Dunstan 

his knee during the brief examination. ‘‘They are tests,” 
explained the doctor. Uncle Ab did not respond to the tests. 
“And when a patient does not respond?” “Well, in that case 
there may or may not be something wrong; we don’t know.” 

Well, here was the question of suffering. An intelligent, 
educated man had been among them, with gifts of humor 
and imagination which might prompt him to exaggerate; 
which, on the other hand, properly checked, might enable him 
to arrive at some knowledge of the facts. As from a few 
bones a diplodocus may be built up, so from half an hour 
he could construct twenty years; from one case a hundred; 
from one isolated cry of agony, the agony which those rooms 
had seen during a quarter of a century . . . Men do not hiss 
out curses on God for fun. Men do not sob out maledictions 
on the mothers who bore them for fun. Men do not storm 
in impotent hatred at their fellow sufferers for fun. Yes, 
there was real suffering. 

When he reached the terminus, he decided, instead of go- 
ing to the Crescent, to call on Jelf at Marlow’s Inn. Jelf 
reached his chambers from the office generally a little after 
five; he would probably find him in, and dinner in town fol- 
lowed by a theater or a music-hall would take the taste of 
Canford Lodge out of his mouth. “Right you are,” said Jelf. 
“I’m just pasting in photographs of my last holiday, but I’ll 
be ready in a minute. Naples, Capri, Sorrento, and Sicily. 
Here’s Monte Pellegrini — Palermo, you know; there’s a rock 
chapel near the summit with the shrine of some marble 
Virgin . . . Mosaics from Monreale, if I remember; a 
triptych in the museum. A street scene in Syracuse. Neapoli- 
tan beggars; a goat-herd in Capri. Oh, by the way, do you 
know Wilde’s lines to Theocritus? One of the most charming 
things ever written. I haven’t the lines handy; ‘Sweet Singer 
of Persephone, do you remember Sicily?’ is the refrain . . . 
You like horrors; well, here are some mummified monks from 
the Capucin monastery at Palermo, and this hunched-up, pet- 
rified beggar was a slave once in Pompeii ... Now I’m 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 195 

ready. Where to? Cremoni’s? Quiet and not too ex- 
pensive.” 

“Good . . . I’m not so fond of horrors that I shan’t be 
glad to get them off my mind for a little while. I’ll just nar- 
rate my experiences this afternoon, and then we’ll have nothing 
but pleasant things for the rest of the evening.” 

“ ‘Lie on, Macduff,’ as Bissing at the office used to say.” 

Ledgar felt some relief in passing on his reflections to his 
friend. Jelf was tactful, sympathetic, eminently clear-minded. 
He generally drove to the root of a matter; made a clean 
path through difficulties; did not allow the morbid, the con- 
fused, the perplexing to disturb the smooth current of his 
thoughts. 

“As usual, Ledgar,” he said, “you’re taking the whole bur- 
den of the world’s suffering and misery on your own shoulders. 
An experience like this afternoon’s certainly makes it difficult 
to believe that the sin and suffering have been already carried, 
and are no concern of yours except in so far as you can lessen 
them.” 

“I admit it does not seem to me very obvious. I do 
not really see how someone dying a horrible death two thou- 
sand years ago, affects the fact that someone is dying a hor- 
rible death today at Canford Lodge. All the hymns and 
sermons I have listened to seem to fall to pieces before 
facts.” 

“Well, our standpoints are different. Some day you may 
understand and see; perhaps you may never do so. You may 
be color-blind. You may not be meant to believe. I don’t 
know. But at present I should just admit facts, and face 
them as your doctor at Canford. Lodge did. Here’s a cage or 
so of lunatics, suffering a good deal, and representing a vast 
amount — an incalculable amount — of suffering now and in 
the past. Very well. Can I alter it? Can I alleviate it? 
The doctor really does the sane and sensible thing; I don’t 
know much about it, but it’s my duty to see that these creatures 
are not needlessly hurt, that they don’t get into mischief, 


196 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

that they have good food, plenty of sleep, regular hours, and 
regular exercise. If I do so much for them, my responsi- 
bility is ended. There’s not the smallest reason why these 
things should make me wretched . . . I’m fond of giving you 
mottoes; here’s one from Ecclesiastes. You have a man who 
has plumbed the depth of human desire, has tasted every sweet 
and pleasant thing, and found all vanity. ‘Let us hear,’ he 
says, ‘the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep 
His commandments; for this is the whole duty of man.’ It 
doesn’t really make much difference in this case whether you 
believe intellectually in God or not. ‘Mind your own busi- 
ness’: that’s practically the conclusion of the whole matter. 
The amount of suffering in the world only concerns you in 
so far as you have caused it, or as you can alter it. Solo- 
mon’s text is practically Christ’s reply to those who said, ‘Lord, 
are there few who be saved?’ ‘What is that to thee? Follow 
thou me.’ In other words, mind your own business. . . . 
Now we’ll shunt horrors. Have you read — No; I won’t ask 
you now about Merejkowski’s book; it’s too closely allied to 
the same subject. We’ll take another tip from sad Solo- 
mon; ‘rejoice in the days of our youth.’ At all events we’ll 
cut the theology in Merejkowski, as we’re off horrors. 
But ” 

“I’m surprised to hear you include theology with the hor- 
rors, Maurice.” 

“Well, Anti-Christ you know — it rather tends that way. I 
was going to ask if you had come to the life at Ludovico il 
Moro’s court. Wonderful picture it gives you of Italy of 
that century. I remember when I was at Florence ” 

Jelf had been two or three times to Italy; he was steeped 
in its life, literature, and art. From Leonardo was an easy 
step to Michael Angelo; from him to Cellini, the amazing 
rogue-genius who could go down on his knees to thank God 
humbly for dexterity in cutting a man’s throat; from him 
to lesser lights like Cino. He had an eye for color and the 
picturesque ; he went over the amazing story of the Doge whose 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 197 

portrait is lacking in the ducal gallery; he showed Ledgar 
Masaniello crying fruit in the streets of Naples, and at the 
fateful banquet; he had a dozen vivid sketches at command 
of life in forgotten Tyrannies and Republics and Prince- 
Bishoprics. “You ought to read up some Italian history and 
art before we go for our tour, Ledgar,” he said. “You’ll 
have to get a week’s extension; there should be no difficulty 
about that. I’ll speak to the manager. We can’t do very 
much under a month . . . Ah, here we are.” 

Cremoni’s was a restaurant attached to a small but good 
hotel, much patronized by well-to-do country folk visiting 
town. The dinner was slight, but good, as seemed to be every- 
thing in the selection of which Maurice Jelf had any hand. 
A framed list of theaters and halls was on the table. Jelf 
took it up. “Ah, ‘As You Like It,’ at the Olympian. That’s 
as near anything Italian as we can get. All Shakespeare’s great 
folk are essentially Italian in conception, I think. Perhaps it’s 
my obsession. By the way. I’m going to ask you more Mag- 
nall’s questions. Who wrote the finest line in English 
literature ?” 

“Well, I have so many favorites,” said Ledgar. “I like 
‘There was a little city and few men within it — ’ all that 
passage in Ecclesiastes. And I like the ‘magic casements line’ 
of Keats — or indeed any of that sonnet.” 

“Wrong,” said Jelf. “Shakespeare, ‘Nor poppy nor man- 
dragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the East.’ ” 

“Fine, very fine. A matter of opinion, though, Maurice. 
There are so many. Sir Thomas Browne, for instance, in 
‘Urn Burial,’ about the drums and tramplings — you re- 
member.” 

“I’m right for all that. Who wrote the greatest text in 
any of the world’s Bibles?” 

“In any? Oh, books. I suppose our Bible gives the finest; 
hard to say which, Jesus Christ, or Job, or — or St. Paul.” 

“You include Job as a literary man. I say texts; convey- 
ing in tersest form the most concise and useful sermon — the 


198 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

wisest and greatest words, if you like. Who spoke the great- 
est words ever uttered?’^ 

‘‘Jesus Christ.” 

“Wrong. Shakespeare, ‘This above all — to thine own self 
be true; and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst 
not then be false to any^ man.’ Those are the greatest words 
ever given to the world. They cover everything, everyone, 
all castes, all creeds, all religions. If they substituted those for 
all their Athanasian creeds, all over Christendom, just for a 
month of Sundays, the world would be immeasurably the 
gainer. No one can escape from them. They are simple, 
but they are the key words to all the perplexities of life. 
You’re brought up a Baptist, but the Christian faith seems 
for some reason to repel you. Very well. ‘To thine own self 
be true.’ ” 

Ledgar felt a little uncomfortable. “Well, the idea of the 
Atonement certainly seems to me irrational and artificial. I 
cannot see the necessity or the efficacy of One, whose very 
existence history almost ignores, dying for the world. It ap- 
pears to me unethical.” 

“That depends rather on how far self-sacrifice and un- 
selfishness are unethical. Because here you have, in the Cross 
set on high that all may see it, the supreme example of un- 
selfishness and self-sacrifice. Still, as you don’t accept it — ‘to 
thine own self be true.’ I do. But then, although I was 
brought up a Baptist, that form of worship or belief does not 
altogether satisfy me. And so I am a kind of Baptist-Catholic, 
a mug-wumpy being, the bones of Puritanism under something 
less hard and unpicturesque. I wear the laced cassock, the 
gold-embroidered cope, over the rough form of some peasant 
priest of Italy or Tirol. It satisfies me . . . If you feel 
a conscientious desire to burn me alive for my opinions-^-pass 
the mustard, please — as Calvin felt a conscientious desire to 
burn his friend Servetus, it’s your duty to burn me. If I 
feel a conscientious desire not to be burnt, as no doubt Servetus 
did, it’s my duty not to allow you to burn me. Check your 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 199 

conscience, of course, as far as possible with your intelligence. 
Where the two clash, it’s safer to obey your conscience. That’s 
my opinion, for what it’s worth. If a man conscientiously 
believes in Mumbo Jumbo, let him eat the missionary who 
dares to try and tamper with his faith. He’s right. Take the 
case of your asylum doctor. Here’s a terrible, inexplicable 
malady which I don’t understand at all. Very well. It’s 
a good thing for these people not to be hurt, not to kill them- 
selves or others, to have regular food, exercise, fresh air. 
I’ll do the very best I can, even if I only touch the fringe of 
the trouble. 

**For lo! in human hearts unseen 
The Healer dwelleth still. 

And they who make His temples clean 
The best subserve His will, 

''The paths of pain are thine. Go forth 
With patience, trust, and hope; 

The sufferings of a sin-sick earth 
Shall give thee ample scope. 

"So thou shall be with power endued 
From Him who went about 
The Syrian hillsides doing good. 

And casting demons out. 

"That good physician liveth yet. 

Thy friend and guide to be; 

The Healer by Gennesaret 
Shall walk thy rounds with theeT 

‘‘They don’t believe in demons, though.” 

“Now we’re starting again on the forbidden topics. It was 
my fault. Pepper, please. It’s Shakespeare tonight; only 
Shakespeare; a night with Shakespeare. ... By the way — 
here’s another Magnall, but this time I’m not laying down 


200 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

the law; Fm only asking your opinion — ^what English writer 
do you think is best known by name to the common people?” 

“Shakespeare again, I suppose.” 

“How about Dickens?” 

“Yes . . . Perhaps Dickens. I think more probably 
Dickens.” 

“Well, I used to think so. It’s extraordinary, though, how 
men whose names one would think were household words 
ever5rvvhere are unknown. I went on Saturday to a little Kent 
village only a few miles from Gadshill. It is a Dickens 
shrine; jolly old place, real Kent — hops, woods, fine Tudor 
mansion, old church, old almshouses, old inn crammed with 
pictures and relics. I asked an ancient rustic for his memories 
of Dickens. ‘Doant know the naame, zur.’ Surely he’d heard 
of Pickwick? ‘Never beared — ’ and then his face bright- 
ened. Yes, they sold Pickwicks at the tobacconist’s. And I 
went a year or two ago to Yarmouth, and found an old boat- 
man who really remembered Dickens, and said he remembered 
Peggottys hut. ‘But look here, sir,’ he said, as he pocketed 
his tip, ‘don’t get running away with the idea that it was 
David Copperfield who wrote Charles Dickens. It was t’other 
way about. Oh, you did know ? But lots of people who come 
down here think David Copperfield wrote Charles Dickens.’ 

“I daresay you could find people who know a Gladstone 
bag, but nothing about Gladstone; Wellington boots and noth- 
ing about Wellington. The ignorance of fairly well-educated 
people is simply astounding. I knew a man who told me 
quite solemnly, after a visit to Boulogne, that the French 
had put up a great column there to the memory of Nelson . . . 
There’s a lady bowing to you, Ledgar.” 

Ledgar looked round; at a neighboring table were Mrs. 
Beltinge, Mary, and Gordon. He went over to them. 

“My dear Ledgar,” said Mrs. Beltinge, “now what an ex- 
traordinary thing. Gordon gave me a new lorgnette yester- 
day, which was my birthday; and the first person I see through 
it is you. What are you doing here? And who is your friend? 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 20i 

Bring him over and introduce him. You’re only beginning 
dinner? Then come and join us here.” 

Maurice Jelf was brought up and introduced. The 
Beltinges were staying in town for a few weeks; they gen- 
erally put up at Cremoni’s. Gordon, who had grown almost 
out of knowledge, and now possessed a nearly perceptible 
mustache, was on furlough for a few days from Bulford Camp. 
Mar>" had been properly “finished” in France, and would not 
return. She had been staying at Dinan. It was an awfully 
pretty place, with awfully pretty old walls covered with 
joubarbe. Did Ledgar know what joubarbe was? Well, it 
was an awfully pretty pink flower that looked like cherry 
blossom, she thought; she did not know the English name. 

Mrs. Beltinge hoped not orange blossom. She supposed 
now Mary was “finished” her thoughts would soon be turning 
in that direction. 

Mary said that grandmama was awfully horrid. 

Jelf had not been to Dinan, but suggested that the flower 
was probably house-leek. Mary said that their villa was on 
top of one of the walls; you looked out of the windows — Oh, 
awfully deep. She had been up the Ranee, or down the Ranee, 
several times ; it was awfully pretty. And there was an awfully 
jolly old street of ancient houses that nodded their heads to- 
gether as if they were talking, all the way down to the river. 
She had been living with a French admiral and his family; 
awfully nice people. Now and then she brought out a French 
word or idiom; she had acquired rather pretty French ges- 
tures; her gown was evidently from France. 

Gordon, except in appearance, had altered very little. He 
still tormented his sister, quite amiably; for instance, when 
lamb cutlets and green peas were brought round, “Mary, have 
a little lamb,” he said quite audibly. 

“How horrid you are, Gordon! I’m sure the waiter heard 
you. Ledgar, he’s not altered at all.” 

No. Gordon had not altered at all; it was still the boy 
who had sung “Christians, awake,” while tubbing in Ledgar’s 


202 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

room because he always had the larger bath, who had said 
“Damn” when rising from his very reverent knees, and had 
dragged a frowsy old parson away from his frowsy books to 
see the stables. He had gone through Sandhurst into the 
Army, which Uncle Charles had said was the only respectable 
career for a man except possibly the Church — or, of course, 
the Navy. Uncle Charles did not think much of the Bar. 

“But then, of course,” said Gordon, making a desperate 
attempt to curl the almost perceptible mustache, “I always 
did want to be a soldier. Didn’t I, Grandma? I did when 
I went to my first school, and learned to drill with a broom- 
stick fitted with a sort of tin spear-head thing. Rum old drill 
sergeant we had. Used to drink like a fish, and beat his wife. 
Didn’t he rap us on the knuckles ! He’d lost a leg, and ” 

“Very careless of a man to lose his legs, my dear,” said 
grandmamma, her eyes snapping. Gordon ignored the inter- 
ruption. 

“He used to whack his wife with his wooden leg. Oh, I 
say, what are all you people going to do after dinner? Buck 
up, Mary; don’t be such a cochon, my dear ” 

“Gordon, you’re perfectly horrid!” 

** Cochons elegant French, isn’t it? That’s the third help- 
ing of ice pudding, I believe. Well, the second. Do hurry 
up. Everyone’s staring at you. I say, you must try to re- 
member you’re in England with respectable people. Uncle 
Charles says the French aren’t quite civilized; they only take 
a bath once a year when they’re spring-cleaning.” 

“They’re awfully jolly,” retorted Mary; “much nicer than 
some English people I know.” 

“Oh, I say, did you learn any history when you were in 
France? Didn’t happen to hear what was written on Bloody 
Mary’s heart, did you? Nearly ready? May I order you 
a frog, mademoiselle?” 

“Be quiet, Gordon. Remember you’re an officer now, and 
supposed to be a gentleman. You’re tormenting your sister,” 
said Mrs. Beltinge. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 203 

Ledgar mentioned their program for the evening. “Oh, 
I say,” said Gordon, “why not all come? I like Shake- 
speare awfully; ripping old chap. We had one of his things 
at Aldershot, I fancy. ‘School for Scandal’ or ‘David Gar- 
rick’; I forget which; I know someone said it was by Shake- 
speare, and I couldn’t go because I had a cold.” 

Ledgar was charmed at the idea of their going; Jelf was 
charmed; Mary had seen ""Romeo et Juliette"" at Dinan, and 
thought it awfully pretty. Mrs. Beltinge thought Mary would 
have described the destruction of Pompeii or the Lisbon earth- 
quake as awfully pretty ... In two hansoms^ the party 
drove oif to the Olympian. 

And, after music that carried Ledgar many, many long 
miles, and many, many long years from the horrors of the 
afternoon, the curtain rose on an “Orchard near Oliver’s 
House,” and at the mention of Olivers horses in the very first 
speech Gordon pricked up his ears, finding something likely to 
be to his taste. Ledgar was carried away by it all. Left to 
himself and his own devices, he would as probably have en- 
tered the first music hall that presented itself. Yet there was 
no question which entertainment gave him the truest pleasure. 
Here were music, color, laughter, song, graceful dance. And 
real people; duke and peasant, jester and country clown; lady 
and waiting-maid; people real then, real today; always real, 
because flesh an’d blood were under ^ilk and homespun and 
motley. Three hundred years ago, Shakespeare, Alleyne, men 
long, long dust, had said these words; Elizabethan crowds 
had listened to them within the Bankside walls, but under open 
sky; in the courtyards of ancient inns; in village greens of 
rural England. Five continents had now heard them, in a 
score of tongues — the soul in the words had spoken; here, 
tonight, they listened to them as they first were spoken. The 
magic was unchanged by time; the spell that had bound half 
a score of generations held them still. 

Now and again Ledgar watched Mary’s face, in profile, lit 
only by the dim stage lights. Not actually pretty — handsome. 


204 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

rather; an aristocrat, with the proud short upper-lip, the nose 
slightly aquiline, the hair of old-gold hue. Her dress of some 
short-silken texture became her admirably. If she said “aw- 
fully,” the dairlty accent robbed the atrocious word of all its 
ugliness. She was distinguished; he knew and felt he was 
in good company; people sitting near could see that. Mrs, 
Beltinge had laughed at her about orange blossom. Mary 
married? It had somehow never entered his thoughts. But, 
of course, some day — and perhaps soon. 

Rosalind and Celia were “devising sports.” “Let me see; 
what think you of falling in love?” “Marry, I prythee, do, 
to make sport withal; but love no man in good earnest.” 
Somehow he could not picture Mary deep in love. She was 
too cold, too — healthy, he had almost thought; too correct. 
If she fell in love it would be to make sport withal; with 
a gentleman, of course, who was awfully jolly, or awfully 
handsome, or awfully nice. And she would be a good wife 
for him to love and be vastly proud of. Not the hot, pas- 
sionate business of tears and laughter, and jealousy that pos- 
sibly. . . . 

“I believe you’re going to sleep, Ledgar. The curtain’s 
down. Please get us some ices; Grandma’s dying for one.” 

They were in the Duke’s Palace, a magnificent room, the 
windows opening on a vista of glorious country, the forest 
in soft unbrageous mass on the horizon. Yes; Mary might 
be one of these court ladies, very handsome, very stately, very 
proud. Not Rosalind, he thought; perhaps not Celia. 

For when he saw Rosalind, his memories flew back to a 
little, dark-haired maid with violet eyes and a sweet mouth, 
racing barefoot on the sands; plucking daisies and wild grasses 
to make chains and crowns; pouring out tea from an old, bat- 
tered pot in a tiny red-tiled kitchen. Funny, that once a boy, 
who died not so very many years ago, did have tea from that 
old brown battered tea-pot, and sometimes even in that red- 
tiled kitchen! And here he sat; and a great court lady, very 
handsome, very stately, sat beside him, whispering now and 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 205 

then in an accent very different from that of the little Kentish 
maid (pleasant as he thought it) and eating chocolates from a 
very gaudy box. 

They were in the forest of Arden, where the Duke and his 
lords, “exempt from public haunt, found tongues in trees, 
books in the running brooks, and good in everything.” Jaques 
was there, Celia and Rosalind; there Touchstone, and Audrey, 
And here was Gorin — 

“Sir, I am a true laborer; I earn that I eat, get that I wear, 
owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s 
good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is 
to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.” 

Great master of English ! Limning in fifty words a picture 
which stands true and undimmed after three centuries of 
man’s labor . . . And they were still in the forest, a clearing 
with moss and lichen-covered logs, green drives running like 
rivers to a rolling sea of green. And the page was singing: 

^Tt was a lover and his lass, 

JVith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 

That o'er the green cornfield did pass 

In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time. 

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. 

Sweet lovers love the spring," 

And at last Rosalind, who had taken him far from Arden 
forest to an English sea, Rosalind, very sweet in her forest- 
boy’s dress, spoke the epilogue before the curtain. . . . 

“Ledgar, you’re really fast asleep again. It’s over, and I 
don’t believe you heard a word of it. Don’t you think Rosa- 
lind awfully pretty? Gordon, do get two hansoms before all 
these people get out. Isn’t the squash frightful? No, Ledgar, 
you stay here, there’s a dear boy.” For a second she touched 
his arm with her gloved hand. “Help Grandma on with her 
cloak. Grandma, how did you enjoy it? Ledgar’s been asleep 
all the time. I do believe he’s asleep now.” 


2o6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Ledgar was wishing an old wish of many, many years be- 
fore. If he were not quite so many people! 

“I haven’t been asleep at all, Mary,” he said. “I’ve been 
‘fleeting the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.’ ’* 


CHAPTER V 

L EDGAR and Mr. Wilkins, who had been Mr. Muttle- 
boy’s partner in Jewin Street, took out a power of at- 
torney for the administration of his estate. Without 
having actually passed through the process of death, he had 
several of the advantages of that experience — the law and 
society no longer recognizing him as a human being; to all 
intents and purposes he had ceased to exist. Ledgar wrote 
and sent to him regularly, and once or twice went down to see 
him; in return, he received an occasional note in Uncle Ah’s 
now somewhat shaky handwriting. From these he gathered 
that his uncle’s principal friend was a gentleman who had 
been three times Archbishop of Canterbury; that he played 
draughts regularly with opponents worthy of his steel, and 
was taking lessons in elementary chess, beginning with (so he 
said) the movements of the prawns; that his main grievance 
was due to the annoying conduct of a very stout inmate who 
would sit on all the papers and magazines directly they ar- 
rived. But then a dog in a certain manger did much the same 
thing; and the propensity is not strictly confined always within 
asylum walls. On the whole, then. Uncle Ah seemed as well 
and comfortable as could be reasonably expected; no doubt in 
time he would be fully qualified to pass all the tests required for 
complete lunacy, perhaps even to the knee jerk. 

The lease of the Crescent, which had recently expired, was 
not renewed. Very soon indeed this survival of an older 
London was utterly effaced; effaced so completely, by blocks 
of model lodgings, that no passer-by ever imagined its days 
of Victorian prosperity, when strings of city merchants, in 
their generations, mounted their horses from the horse-blocks, 
or drove out in coach, brougham, hansom, or four-wheeler; 
when ancient watchmen in many faded capes and coats swung 


207 


2o8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

their lanthorns and called the hours and the weather; when 
young brides came to the houses, and old ladies died in the 
great rooms. 

Since it became neeessary for him to find new quarters, Led- 
gar consulted Maurice Jelf, who told him of a set of cham- 
bers at Marlow’s Inn on the staircase below his own. He 
made these habitable with furniture rescued from the Crescent 
sale, and his own books and pictures. Mrs. Folley, the lady 
who seemed to stand storklike on one leg, attended to his 
wants. Jelf said she had one failing; she suffered terribly 
from periodic heart attacks, which incapacitated her entirely 
for the time, and coincided very singularly with the running 
out of Jelf’s small stock of stimulants. Ledgar discovered 
one other. There was an “old ’un” as formidable as Mrs. 
Gummidge s in the background; not the late Mr. Folley, who, 
if rumor and the string-dangling activities of an impudent 
boot-urchin did not lie, had passed to a better world in cir- 
cumstances not only out of his control but about which the 
less that was said the better. In short, he was commonly sup- 
posed to have been hanged. A young barrister on the same 
staircase as Ledgar said that he had only once heard Mrs. 
Folley — in the throes of a heart attack — refer to this painful 
episode. She had recently “got conversion” at a Salvation 
Army penitent form, and alluded tearfully to her husband^s 
death as “promotion to higher service.” 

It was her “old ’un,” a certain Mr. Holylake, who had 
induced her to attend the meetings which had brought about 
such happy results. “Oh, he was a ’oly old gentleman!” she 
remarked ecstatically, with an emphasis that suggested quite 
plainly her regret that the new gentleman she was taking in 
and doing for coyld by no stretch of the imagination be de- 
scribed as ’oly, either old or young. To hear Mr. ’Olylake 
pray! To hear him sing! Whenever you come across him, 
he seemed to be on his knees, or singing, or, if he wasn’t doing 
that, lifting his arms to the ’eavens. Ledgar thought dimly 
•f the stump-winged parrot which used to say “Blimy, I’m 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 209 

going to He did not dare to compare Mr. Holylake, 

that ornament of the Bar, with the parrot. Mrs. Folley com- 
pared him herself to Mr. Moses and Mr. Abraham. All her 
Biblical characters were, very respectfully, Mr. and Mrs. — 
Holylake used to give nice little prayer parties to young barris- 
ters and students in his chambers. If he had been there at the 
time, Ledgar might have gone; but, of course, he wasn’t; a 
great many of them was converted. There was a very gay 
young gentleman, a medical, who had one of Mrs. Folley’s 
sets of rooms then ; he said he’d heard the Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, and he couldn’t pray for toffee, but Mr. Holylake 
— ^why, he prayed like the devil. Why an Archbishop with 
fifteen thousand a year should want to pray for toffee nobody 
knew. Mrs. Folley hoped this medical gentleman would 
serve as a warning to Mr. Dunstan, because he died a terrible 
death through tampering with Mrs. Folley’s old tomcat. He 
inoculated it in the tail with seven different diseases, and that 
poor animal had an awful time — directly it had untied itself 
from lockjaw and hydrophobia, it had to untwist its neck, 
so to speak, from mumps and diphtheria, in order to whoop 
when the whooping-cough came on. Yellow fever finished it 
off. But there was a judgment waiting for him, because the 
cat bit and scratched him just before it died. He took its body 
round to a German-sausage shop in the Strand, where a day 
or two before they had refused to change a bad florin for him ; 
and threw it on the counter — lots of people in the shop, too — 
and said he’d bring the rest on Friday. And that very night 
he took ill from his bite and scratches, and the Coroner said 
it was “Ann Jane or Pectors,” which is a horrible disease for 
anyone to die of. 

Mrs. Folley had been “under the ’orspital” herself once, 
with “information of the lungs and new mania.” She thought 
it was that which first made her think seriously of religion. 
Had Mr. Dunstan ever got religion? Ah — ^with a wistful 
smile — she could see he hadn’t; he’d have a nappier look if 
he had. Now she felt like singing all day long. Ledgar now 


210 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

understood a certain wheezing and squeaking noise, compounded 
apparently of knife-polishing machine and cork extractions, 
which had hitherto puzzled him. Mrs. Folley, of course, hum- 
ming hymns. It had made a difference to her in this way, too ; 
she was always wanting to do kind actions to someone. It was 
before the days of boy scouts, but she tried to do a kindness 
to each of her lodgers every day. Mr. Jelf now; she warmed 
his slippers for him; did warm ^em, too. Not that he liked 
it much: he was too frightened of getting chilblains. Still, it 
was being kind. She used to tidy up Mr. Holylake’s papers; 
now he did appreciate that. But then he always was so good. 
She wrote a hymn for him once, on his birthday, and — just to 
show how good it was — he put his handkerchief to his eyes, 
and said, “Take it away, Mrs. Folley, take it away, I implore 
you; I can’t bear it!” She had found it rather difficult to do 
any good turn to the medical student, he was that cantanker- 
ous; but once, when she thought he wasn’t looking very well 
after a night out, she did put a little caster oil unbeknown to 
him in his cawfee . . . Ledgar was distressed before long to 
find Mrs. Folley doing surreptitious good turns to him; it 
commenced by her cleaning a new pair of brown boots with 
blacking. 

Jelf and he frequently exchanged visits. They were dis- 
cussing Mrs. Folley one evening, when Jelf remarked, apropos 
of her revival, “By the way, Ledgar, I suppose you have never 
been converted?” 

“Certainly not. I’ve seen rather too much of it. Mrs. 
Folley, now; has it reduced the number of her heart attacks?” 

“I don’t know that it has. At first, I believe, she gave 
them up.” 

“That’s usually the way, in my experience. I’ve known 
so many. We had a very pretty young girl living at Came 
Bay; jolly sort of girl, smoked cigarettes and all that; awful 
flirt, too. She was converted at a big revival meeting. It 
quite altered her. She gave tracts to all the boys who hung 
about her, and then cut them dead, and was hand in glove 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 2II 

with the revival people. There was a pale young man with 
long pale hair who sang solo hymns; she’d sit gazing at him 
for hours. Sang herself in their choir ; called the old revivalist 
boy ‘Daddy,’ and was always pawing him about. You couldn’t 
get her to speak to you ; she was so good, butter wouldn’t have 
melted in her mouth . . . And a month after everyone was 
horrified to hear that she’d gone to live in a caravan with some 
artist fellow. They called it the simple life, and had con- 
scientious objections to being married . . . It’s partly tempera- 
ment, but largely sex, I think. And the thing swings over; I 
mean the simple life was only another form of the conversion. 
In America, she’d have joined the Mormons, or thrown a bomb 
at the President.” 

“Have you read the subject up at all?” 

“I was looking through a book on the psychology of con- 
version the other day ; published in the States. It gave statistics ; 
by far the largest number of cases occurred at the beginning 
of manhood or womanhood.” 

“Well, why not?” said Jelf. “I mean, you speak as if that 
were an argument against the value of the experience. I don’t 
see why it should be. You seem to take the far too common 
attitude that sex is something contemptible or to be ashamed 
of. But why? It has far more influence than anything else, 
except perhaps religion itself, on human life; nothing can well 
be more important than the continuance of life ; men of olden 
time recognized it, with awe and veneration, as something 
that deserved temples, priests, and worship. It is surely not 
remarkable if the greatest fact of soul experience is associated 
with the greatest fact of physical and spiritual experience. 
Supposing there is a Creator. Supposing there is a power of 
spirit which controls and directs the world. With what hu- 
man activities would it be more intimately associated than with 
those that provide for the very continuance of the race?” 

“Yes; but what do you make of such cases as Mrs. Folley 
and the girl I was speaking about? Cases of men who get 
religion and plunge shortly after, when the reaction comes. 


212 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

into excesses foreign even to their previous nature? Cases of 
savage races, who sink lower in the scale of civilization after 
conversion ? How about conversions in religious systems other 
than Christianity? And do animals experience any kind of 
conversion with the awakening of sexual instincts?” 

“One question at a time, old chap. I don’t know enough 
about animals to say. There are a few things I don’t know. 
We see good dogs and bad dogs; the author of ‘In a Canadian 
Canoe’ speaks about a bad black beetle. I suppose from that 
that there may be good black beetles. I can hardly picture 
a black beetle on the penitent form. I imagine that in his case 
conversion would take the form of allowing his companions to 
have first go at the beer or treacle set to trap them. Some ani- 
mals have more affection, some more intelligence than others. 
Some bloaters have hard roes, some soft; I don’t know enough 
of natural history to say whether that has any bearing on the 
subject. An intelligent dog would soon discover that good 
behavior produced more satisfactory results ... Of course, 
non-Christian people experience conversion; probably at some 
time or other most human beings experience conversion in some 
form. Great religious teachers, converted themselves, find 
their life-work in pointing out to others how to secure an ex- 
perience so desirable. By suffering, by self-surrender, they 
open magic casements hitherto unsuspected; unlock the secret 
doors of treasure chambers — and take the news to others.” 

“Then conversion does not necessarily argue the truth of 
any particular creed? I mean, a Moslem is converted, and 
is convinced that there is only one God, and that Mahomet 
is his prophet. A Jew is converted, but Mahomet has no place 
in his belief. A Christian is converted, and finds that there 
are Three Gods, joined in One, and that One of this Trinity 
died to save him. Now how far is this experience useful — or 
is it useful at all — in establishing or confirming historical 
fact? I mean, at our chapel at Came Bay they sometimes had 
revival meetings where people were converted. They became 
convinced at once that two thousand years ago in Palestine a 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 213 

Jewish carpenter lived, taught, was crucified, and rose from 
the dead. They are convinced of it — ^will lay down life itself 
if necessary in defense of their belief — ^yet not a single word 
has been added to the brief sentence in which Tacitus, alone 
I think among contemporary historians, dismisses Jesus 
Christ. How much is this revelation which accompanies con- 
version worth?’* 

*‘I believe it* is valuable in this sense; it lifts the person 
changed to a higher platform, the highest it is possible for him 
at that stage to attain. A young Moslem ‘converted’ to his 
faith will die for the belief that there is one God, and that 
Mahomet is the prophet of God. Well, it’s true. The young 
Christian, converted, is shown something more; that this One 
God is Three, while remaining One; that Christ did actually 
live and die, and by His death brought men — men of good will, 
that is, ready to benefit by the sacrifice — into harmony with 
Grod. Is the revelation given by conversion valuable in a his- 
toric sense? I think so. I believe there is another sense in 
the world, not given to nor enjoyed by everyone, which is as 
real as sight or touch and more important; a sense which in 
some mysterious way does supply absolutely satisfactory evi- 
dence to the person himself — though not, of course, to anyone 
else — as to certain facts of history. Ah, here’s Calmady. 
Calmady, we’re just going over the old business of the senses, 
with especial reference to the religious sense.” 

Calmady was the young barrister who had reported Mrs. 
Folley’s reference to her deceased husband. He lived in the 
same block, and once had taken Jelf and Ledgar to dine and 
drink prodigious quantities of wine with a number of other 
students, barristers, and aged legal luminaries as crusted as 
their port, in a fine old hall roofed with black oak and hung 
all round with scutcheons ... Jelf briefly outlined the argu- 
ment. 

“Well, you know my point of view,” said Calmady. “I’m 
a materialist, out and out. I don’t believe in any of your 
mystical nonsense. Of course, everyone knows there’s such a 


214 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

thing as conversion; and a very deplorable, hysterical sort of 
business it generally is. Directly you try to bring it into line 
with facts, or to deduce facts from it, you’re at sea altogether. 
No. Give me something I can touch, handle, take in my hands 
and feel. I know it’s there then; I know it exists. Conver- 
sion’s a nebulous thing you can’t examine.” 

“But why should touch be more important than other senses 
— sight, for example?” 

“Because with touch there’s a voluntary movement going 
out from oneself. If you’re talking about Christianity, Thomas 
is the man for my money. ‘Except I feel,’ you know.” 

“I am inclined to agree with you about Thomas,” said 
Ledgar. 

“And I’m not,” said Jelf. “Here you have a little group 
of men banded round a Master who has revealed a secret to 
them which has transformed and made beautiful the whole 
of life and death. They have been with Him on the beach 
among the nets, and in the boats through smooth and rough 
weather; among the twisted olives and in the cornfields; in the 
stony silences of the mountains, and in the crowded streets 
and markets. Some of them doubtless have visited with Him 
the family at Bethany, and seen Him in the quiet home-circle 
of friends. And they have been with Him on His day of 
triumph — a day of glorious exultation for them, when in the 
shouting of hosannas and waving of palms their highest dreams 
seemed realized . . . And then everything closes in darkness. 
The crown that should have made Him King indeed has been 
of thorns. His scepter, a reed. His palace, a judgment hall. 
His throne, Calvary ... It is finished. Dead He lies, who 
should not have died; and His life among them just a story, an 
unforgotten dream, sweet and infinitely sad. Broken men, 
followers of a lost cause, they look at one another in dumb 
dismay. So this was not the Messiah they waited for! All 
beautiful, the manger-birth, the guiding star, the parables from 
birds and flowers and sea, the day of triumph. But an illusion, 
a lie, a dream from which they woke beneath a tenebrous sky, 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 215 

beneath lightning signaling the fierce anger of God above the 
crosses of three malefactors . . . 

“And then He comes again ; and it is no lie, no illusion ; the 
cause is not lost, the glorious dream is not over. He speaks 
to them, w^ho spake as no man ever spake ; and the faith almost 
crushed out springs up to greet Him. ‘It is He! It is He! It 
is our Master, come again; and the message He brought us is 
true; and the cause He gave us is not lost.* All but one. 
Thomas was not with them then; and they said to him, ‘We 
have seen the Lord.* But he said, ‘Except I shall see in His 
hands the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into His side, 
I will not believe.* 

“I think there is something finer, nobler, in the attitude of 
these humble, broken men, than in that of Thomas.** 

Dunstan and Calmady were silent for a minute, when Jelf 
had finished speaking. 

“Yes,** said Calmady at last, “you make out a plausible case 
— but after all, Jelf, it’s little more than rhetoric. How often 
in the world’s history have ignorant, superstitious men believed 
what is known to be a lie and an imposture on flimsy evidence ? 
Because it is flimsy. And on such a foundation to raise so vast 
a structure!” 

“As the Christian faith? But there the fact stares you in 
the face; this structure has been raised. Out of Nazareth came 
a Power that was to undermine, to overthrow, to supersede, 
the power of Imperial Rome. I am never able to conceal my 
surprise at the credulity and the narrowness of you men who 
take what is called the scientific attitude. Religious experience, 
the experience of men and women of all religions, in all ages, 
in every land, you toss aside with a shrug of the shoulders and 
a gesture of contempt. A follow-my-leader business. A change 
of attitude affecting conduct, not always beneficially. Sheep 
following the bell-wether. But sheep do not go willingly to 
the stake. Sheep do not array themselves in battle, under the 
green flag of Islam, the red flag of the Christ. You cannot 
ignore the spires of a hundred thousand churches, the domes 


2i6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

of a hundred thousand mosques. You cannot ignore the crosses 
that rise under every sun from countless graves. You cannot 
ignore the passionate, loving hearts of millions, living or in 
their graves . . . Because the final truth of Christianity, of 
every religion, rests in the human heart.’* 

“I suppose,” said Calmady, “it is my misfortune that my 
heart tells me nothing of all this. It tells me what seems to 
be the conviction of most of the better-educated men I know, 
the men whose opinions I value. It tells me that everywhere 
men have formulated creeds and systems for their comfort, 
which fall to pieces at a touch of critical fingers; beautiful- 
colored bubbles, blown and dispersed by a breath; gossamer 
fabrics, tossed away into broken filaments by a puff of wind ; 
rainbow hues on the wave crest, shattered into foam by the 
flinging of a pebble. What does Clifford say of Christianity? 
‘That awful plague which has destroyed two civilizations and 
but barely failed to slay such promise of good as is now strug- 
gling to live among men.’ I do not go so far as that; I do 
say that nothing has caused such unspeakable misery among 
mankind as that religion you are trying to excuse.” 

“And because you make that statement, without qualifica- 
tion,” said Jelf, “I complain that you are superficial. If you 
take that difficulty to Christ Himself, He says at once ‘I know. 
My religion, a religion of love, will bring a sword upon earth ; 
will divide households, will set brother against brother. It is 
a fighting religion; evil and opposition have to go down before 
it, until at last it prevails.’ ” 

“But does it show any sign of prevailing?” said Ledgar. 
“Look at the better-dressed men in church nowadays, who 
kneel in prayer, sing the hymns, recite the Creed, turn to the 
cast. I agree with what Calmady says about that. I’ve 
spoken to so many of them. In their own smoking-rooms or at 
their clubs these men will tell you quite plainly that they do 
not believe in the divinity of Christ; do not believe in the 
Resurrection; do not believe in life after death. At present, 
in a transition stage of thought and belief, they find it con- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 217 

venient to pretend. It is correct to do so ; they are on the safe 
side; it is a good thing for the children. But in the brains 
behind these solemn, reverent faces, there is all the time the 
viewpoint of the loafer drinkipg from his tankard as the Sun- 
day-school excursion passes with its banners: ‘I don’t go in 
for that sort of thing myself, but I’m glad they have had a 
fine day for their treat.’ When I lived at my uncle’s, our 
chapel was in a main suburban street, with trams and buses 
constantly passing. We could hear the rattle and rumble and 
clanging of bells. On Sunday evenings, when we were listen- 
ing to the old, old story, so old that to me it was^ already 
hackneyed, we could hear the cries and laughter of people on 
the crowded pavements. And I used to think : We are shut up 
here, as if we were in an ark among troubled waters, and the 
minister is shrieking out on tiptoe from his hassock that people 
who do not believe in Christ are lost. Yet if I were to ask 
nine out of the first ten persons I encountered the moment I 
left the chapel, what would happen? You know very well, 
Jelf. The lads would jeer, the girls giggle. Educated men 
might reply with civility, and might conceal their real opinions 
from kindliness. Working-men would speak of Huxley, Brad- 
laugh, Ingersoll. The old forms remain: the Faith itself is 
dying.” 

“And what Dunstan says,” went on Calmady, “brings us 
back to my old argument; that the only safe guide is reason.” 

“Well, I came in to borrow your lexicon, and you’ve kept 
me for half an hour.” 

“I always think during these discussions,” said Ledgar, 
when Calmady had gone, “of what the owl said to the cat. 
Do you remember? ‘How do owls pass their time?’ asks the 
cat. ‘By entertaining discussions as to whether the owl or the 
egg came first.’ ‘But that is a question which can never be 
settled.’ ‘Exactly, and that is what makes it so extremely 
fascinating.’ ” 

Jelf laughed. “But I don’t admit that there is no solution,” 
he said. “Of course, there’s a great deal in what you and Cal- 


2i8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

mady have said. There is a tremendous breaking aw^ay from 
old beliefs, especially among educated and semi-educated peo- 
ple. The Ark of the Lord seems to have passed to the Phil- 
istines and middle-classes. It’s an absurd thing to say, but it 
seems really quite the exception now to find an intelligent man 
with any education and knowledge of the world who is ortho- 
dox. I know several cases where the wife and children still 
believe, and spend most of their time in maneuvering to keep 
the husband and father out of the opposite camp. It is per- 
fectly true that many who throng the churches nowadays bear 
as little resemblance to worshipers in spirit and in truth, as 
the shadow men seen by — ^was it Glaucus? And science is to 
a large extent responsible. At the most critical age a lad in 
order to attain manhood has certain demands made upon him ; 
demands which involve ridicule, or what appears to be ridicule, 
and self-surrender. If he is looking about to find an escape 
from responsibility, he finds that the men who know, the men 
who have the reputations, the men who do and discover — who 
weigh the worlds, mark the courses of the planets, study the 
plankton of the seas and the ameba, harness electricity to their 
purposes, pick the brain to pieces with their scalpels — laugh 
away the whole teaching of their fathers as an exploded super- 
stition.” 

“You know, Maurice,” said Ledgar, “the more I see of 
you, the more you puzzle me. You talk sometimes like a book. 
If anyone came upon you now he would think you a religious 
monomaniac, perhaps — ^you don’t mind my saying it? — with 
just a suspicion of the prig. Yet ten minutes before Calmady 
came in you were discussing the latest fashion in silk hats. 
And ten minutes before that, you were telling me one of the 
most disgraceful stories in Boccaccio.” 

“I blush with shame,” said Jelf. “I’m afraid I really have 
a compartment in my mind which holds the pornographic; but 
I keep it strictly water-tight.” 

“It’s a deplorable thing,” said Ledgar. “Have you ever 
thought of Carlyle’s words ? ‘Fool, dost thou think because no 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 219 

Boswell notes down thy jargon with ass-skin and blacklead, 
thy words die and fall harmless?’ (I am quoting from mem- 
ory.) ^No idlest word dies, but is a seed sown in time which 
grows on into eternity’ ... I went to a literary dinner the 
other night, and — but do you know Compton Mayne?” 

“I’ve heard of him, of course.” 

“Well, he’s quite a leading orthodox journalist, equally 
famous as a Free Churchman and a novelist. Takes the chair 
regularly at May meetings. And he sat there after dinner, 
a little hunched-up wiry figure with enormous shirt-cuffs 
scribbled with pencil notes, drawn right down over his hands. 
And he told a most shocking story. I did not think much of it 
at the time; but a few days afterwards a man repeated to me 
another story he had told. Quite possibly they were the only 
^stories of the kind he had told in his life. I don’t know. But 
I know what effect it had on me. When I looked through his 
next article — something about ‘Growing In Grace’ — I thought, 
‘Ah, this reminds me of his yarns’; and I constructed for him 
a private life, no doubt quite unjust and quite spurious. Just 
see, now, how the thing works. He tells a story in a quiet 
smoking-room to tough old fellows too seasoned to turn a hair. 
But one of them repeats it with additions in mixed company. 
A younger man tells it to younger men. It travels in the 
saloon of an Atlantic liner. In six months, boys in America, 
nigger boys in Africa, Chinese boys, may be starting on the 
downward path through that very story.” 

“How awful!” said Jelf, shuddering. 

“It is, indeed.” 

“I sit humbled and corrected. Yet, my dear Ledgar, I 
think I have acquired some of the gems of my collection from 
yourself.” 

“Oh, I . . . But my attitude is exactly that of the man 
watching the treat. I doubt whether I have actually any 
morals; I am unmoral. I’m a looker-on. I eliminate myself. 
I always feel in a sense detached. Ever since I was a child I 
seem to have been a rebel against rules and regulations.” 


220 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“A hanger-back, in fact. ‘This game of consequences to 
which we all sit down, the hanger-back not least.’ It’s the 
most dangerous attitude one can take up. It’s — it’s accidie, 
my dear Ledgar; one of the deadly sins. You were speaking 
just now about the cat and the owl. Do you know what a 
blackbird said to that same cat?” 

“I don’t remember.” 

“ ‘I am afraid there is something the matter with your heart, 
my cat. It wants warming.’ ” 

“Oh, yes — because the cat said, ‘When I am cross I mew, 
when I am pleased I purr ; but I must be pleased first. I can’t 
purr myself into happiness.’ Well, I can’t.” 

“It’s a pity . . . Your attitude is very much that of Da 
Vinci ; only more so. By the way, have you finished the book ? 
What do you make of it?” 

“It’s — it’s extraordinary. I couldn’t make it out at first. 
I’m not sure that I can now. I had to go all over it again. 
But it’s an amazing book, the work of an extraordinary 
genius.” 

“It’s certainly the most remarkable study of the artistic 
temperament I have read; I think even the most remarkable 
study in psychology. It deserves to be reread. Indeed, the 
book wants reading first for the story; and then rereading 
with the key — that is, a study of Da Vinci as a man who ap- 
proached very nearly to Anti-Christ, and was himself the 
precursor and herald of the Anti-Christ who is to come. Our 
talk with Calmady was singularly apropos, now that we come 
to speak of Merejkowski’s work. There is, no doubt, this 
conflict between the old and new, between faith and science. 
There is a breaking away from old ways and old beliefs. It 
has troubled me, personally, very little. I find no great diffi- 
culty in holding the Bible story of Creation loosely ; did it take 
not six days but many ages? Very well. Did man rise from 
protoplasm, from amebae, from apes? Very well. I don’t 
know. I am sure of this, that behind it all there is the, Creative 
Spirit, immensely active, kindly, humorous, which orders the 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 221 

flight of birds, so that you may say, ‘Here are swallows ; sumer 
is i’comen in’; which draws by soft rains and sunshine the 
flowers from the soil, so that you may say, ‘Here is the rathe! 
primrose ; spring is come’ ; which orders the circuit of the 
worlds ; which sets the blood coursing in the veins of the child, 
so that you say, ‘Look! The man is coming’; which counsels 
and directs the man, so that by living in harmony with the 
divine will, he is in harmony with all nature and all life: 

wandered forth, the sun and air 
I saw bestowed with equal care 
On good and evil, foul and fair. 

*^And my heart murmured, "Is it meet 
That blindfold Nature thus should treat 
With equal hand the tares and wheatf* 

""I passed the haunts of shame and sin. 

And a voice whispered, "Who therein 
Shall these lost souls to Heaven s peace winf* 

""I said, "No higher life they know; 

These earth-worms love to have it so. 

Who stoops to raise them sinks as low.' 

""That night with painful care I read 
What Hippo's saint and Calvin said — 

The living seeking to the dead. 

""In vain I turned in weary quest. 

Old pages where {God give them rest!) 

The poor creed-mongers dreamed and guessed. 

""And still I prayed, "Lord, let me see 
How Three are One, and One is Three, 

Read the dark riddle unto me!' 


222 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

**Then something whispered, ^Dost thou pray 
For what thou hast? This very day 
The Holy Three have crossed thy way, 

" *Did not the gifts of sun and air 
To good and ill alike declare 
The all-compassionate Father s caref 

** Tn the white soul that stooped to raise 
The lost one from her evil ways. 

Thou saw" St the Christ, whom angels predsel 

'A bodiless Divinity, 

The still small Voice that spake to thee 
Was the Holy Spirit’s mystery!"** 

“It does not trouble me very much that we cannot see all 
the connecting links.’^ 

“You may be right or wrong. I don’t know. The cruelty 
of the universe does not oppress me to the extent it did when 
I was a boy. I see cruelty still, but I see now interest and 
beauty as well. I have to thank you for that ,* you have caused 
me to take more interest in myself, in work, in books, in pic- 
tures. But when I face these great questions — I don’t know. 
It may be true ; it may not. One is on the brink of a decision, 
and then — well, something occurs, some incident or fresh 
point of view strikes the mind, and everything once more is 
hopeless and chaotic. For instance, I was reconsidering my 
attitude toward the Baptists — because you had made me see 
things in a new light — ^when Purkis told me that horrible 
business of Jack Newport. The Creator, if there is a Creator, 
seems to say to me always, ‘Thus far, and no farther ; you may 
catch from some Pisgah-height glimpses of a promised land of 
milk and honey; but mists shall shroud it; you shall not find 
the way; nor shall you know whether these glimpses are mirage 
or reality.’ And I reply, ‘Very well, then. So be it; I cannot 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 223 

trouble further* . . . But I think also I am constitutionally a 
rebel. Frankly, if this promised land means Red Sea crossing, 
forty years of wandering through the Sin desert under the un- 
certain guidance of a querulous Jehovah, thunderings from 
Sinai, plagues of serpents, fights with fierce enemies for pos- 
session — I do not think it worth while. When I was a small 
boy it struck me in the same light. Not good enough; Fm 
much obliged to you. Do you know what John Forster said 
about himself? ‘I never saw so much essence of devil put into 
so small a vessel.* That was as a boy; it is myself to a 
certain extent today.’* 

“And so you risk your birthright. When Moses heard of 
the Promised Land, he laughed and leaped for joy; but he beheld 
it at last afar off, through tears . . . What an amazing argu- 
ment, though, there is for Christianity in that Pilgrimage 
through Sin! The story of the wanderings of the Israelites 
is the first Pilgrim’s Progress. I have often wondered that 
there is no good allegory of a sea voyage illustrating the Chris- 
tian life, to stand side by side with Bunyan. There is not a 
detail, not an incident, of seafaring life which has not, without 
straining, its counterpart. Lighthouses and warning-bells, 
‘rocked by the waves’; the ship’s provisioning, manning, and 
equipment; compass, sextant, chart; the placid reaches and 
green banks of the river; the ancient coast town of bay and 
lozenged windows, of press-gang, gamesters, light women. And 
then — the voyage. Did Christian — if his high adventure were 
translated into the language of the sea — know nothing of rock 
and berg and derelict; of mutiny and the skull and crossbones 
of the buccaneers ; of stowaways, and scant provision,, and the 
sick bay? Of coral and palm islands; of wild beasts and the 
octopus; of the holystoning of decks after battle? I am sure 
our harpooners would capture Jonah’s whale, who would 
satisfy our curiosity with an authentic account of the whole 
incident. I wish I could write it. I wish I could write down 
what talk Master Glutton, the cook, and Master Spare, hi^ 
assistant, had in the galley; to tell of our fight in the round- 


224 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

house, and how our Captain strung up Gunner Will Knott 
to the yard arm, and clapped into irons for our merriment the 
lean shanks of old Zacchaeus Tremble, the merchant — caught 
with Quake, his servant, in the scuppers, both cheeping like 
mice from fear; and about the water-spout which Mr. O’Bedi- 
ent, the Irish purser, broke with his blunderbuss ; and the havoc 
which Madame D. Mure — Delilah Mure, by full name — 
wrought among passengers and crew. From launch and chris- 
tening, to the last mooring and furling of sails gray or white 
or russet under the evening star, in the still waters of the last 
anchorage — here is a great story, which has not yet, I think, 
been written. Why don’t you have a shot at it, Ledgar ?” 

‘‘Thanks — but one must make the voyage oneself to do it 
properly. And I’m a landlubber, a longshoreman, a beach- 
comber. Your hint of dangers frightens me. I have Mr. 
Worldly Wiseman s objection to running into desperate ven- 
tures in the hope of obtaining one knows not what.” 

“Then, of course, you risk obtaining nothing, and losing what 
you already have. Nothing venture, you know. You can’t 
shake off your obsession of the immensity and cruelty of things. 
But there must be the stone and iron, or the world would be 
a splash of mud, blotting space. How can you have your ani- 
mal without bones, your man without principles? God cer- 
tainly does not let you at once into his secrets. You pluck 
your rose, and the thorn is there, a puzzle and yet an argu- 
ment. The bird of brightest plumage has the harshest note. 
Men will not look below the surface. ‘Here’s a marvelous 
piece of mechanism, the body of man. But it has a vermiform 
appendix; useless and dangerous.’ You will find your appen- 
dix everywhere. God says, ‘You must help yourselves a little. 
You must make some effort of your own. I let you into part 
of my secret; the rest you must find out.” 

“It seems to me extraordinarily difficult to find out.” 

“I don’t know. But perhaps I started with advantages 
that you did not possess. Except at the very start, the Chris- 
tian faith never violently repelled me, as it seems to have done 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 225 

you. When I was a small boy, before we went to the States, 
I used often to go to see my grandfather, who lived in a 
suburban square. I went by tramcar, and here's a small ser- 
mon on life in an episode. When alighting from the car, 
while it was going, I once jumped straight off into the road- 
way. Of course, I was flung violently to the ground, and cov- 
ered with mud. Afterwards I noticed older and wiser people; 
they held on, and jumped the way the car was traveling . , . 
Well, on Saturdays I used to sit on a small perch of my own 
in my grandfather’s library while he wrote his Sunday sermon 
with the aid of the one weekly pipe which was, I think, his 
solitary vice. He was a remarkable man in many ways; a 
fine preacher, a good writer; but almost entirely self-educated, 
like many of the Baptist ministers of his time. As he sat there 
writing, in his old gray dressing-gown, he would call out sud- 
denly, ‘Dictionary definition of toss-pot, Maurice. Date of 
Pilgrim Fathers. Proper pronunciation of vagaries.* Down 
would come dictionary and history.” 

“Like our General Information Class at The Herons,” re- 
marked Ledgar. 

“ ‘A toper,’ grandpa; ‘one habitually given to strong drink — 
1 620 — V a-gare-ies.’ 

“‘Not vay-garries? Sure? Good boy.’ Scratch, scratch, 
scratch, went the pen. ‘Quotations for backsliding. Try sin, 
then . . . WTio were- the Abeonaf 

“ ‘Tutelary goddesses of Rome, whose function it was to 
protect children from falls during their first effort in walk- 
ing.* 

“ ‘Right, boy, right. That’s what I wanted. ‘Unto Him 
who is willing and able to keep up from falling . . .’ 

“Through the window we could see the little garden where 
my grandmother generally pottered about in great hedger’s 
gloves among her flowers. And, the sermon over, I would 
be given sixpence; and we would race down together to find 
tea just ready, if it were summer, in the summer-house at the 
garden’s end. I learned a great deal in that library. I learned 


226 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

a great deal more from my grandfather’s small sermons to me; 
parables rather than sermons, like the parables taught long years 
ago in the Syrian fields. He was like a boy himself ; simple as a 
child in many ways; full of life and the enjoyment of it. 
Nearly always there was an object lesson within the range of 
his vision. A passion flower; a robin’s breast; the cross on a 
donkey’s back. From an old sycamore in the garden I learned 
the story of Zacchaeus, and of Moses from the iris. Oh, we 
had great times; I grew to love the Bible rather than to hate 
it . . . But Christmas was his famous day. Christmas tree, 
magic lantern, games, presents for every child he could pack 
into the house. ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’ as a wind up. And 
then we drew our chairs round, servants and all; and he read 
the story of the wonderful birthday.” 

“My training seems to have been stricter than that,” said 
Ledgar. “I must confess that the Bible never had the slightest 
interest for me. ‘Thou shalt not, or I’ll tear out your eyes — 
smash you to bits — burn you alive.’ That’s all I made of it. 
A terrific monster, God, who had bears that gobbled children 
up, who killed men and women for telling fibs, who was so 
strict that even a little boy king of eight did evil continually 
in His sight.” 

“Well, of course, your trouble was that you never cracked 
the shell. You never went deep enough. In this rough-and- 
tumble game of life, God pretends He’s cruel, and all the time 
He’s laughing at you up his sleeve, waiting for you to find out 
that He’s kind. Nature is unspeakably cruel, but behind Na-* 
ture there is the love. 

have gone past where ye must go^ 

I have seen past the agony, 

1 behold God in heewen, and strive, 

“And it is the same with death. Numbers of people, good 
people with nerves and with imagination, fear it horribly all 
their lives. I heard a clergyman once — a good man, and inci- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 227 

dentally a fine preacher, a young man, too — preach on death. 
‘It’s no use my pretending to you that I am not afraid of 
death,’ he said. ‘I am afraid of it; terribly, terribly afraid.* 
I have read that Zola and his wife used to look at one an- 
other, in long spells of silence, especially at night-time; and 
each knew what was in the other’s thoughts — this constant 
dread of what must some day or night inevitably come. And 
here again God looks on in kindliness. He knows that to 
anyone living any life at all there is nothing to be afraid of. 
And Hell. Dives, the kings, the sheep and the goats at the last 
day. All to frighten, to perplex, to drive those who will not 
be led. And to frighten one, I think.” 

“One? Then you convict the Bible of deliberate falsehood. 
Goats, it says.” 

“Perhaps two. Yes, I think two, certainly. No more. 
Judas Iscariot?” 

“Poor Judas! The bitterness of his fate and agony turn 
my sympathies towards him and even against the Master he 
betrayed. What, after all, were Christ’s sufferings to his? 
This loving Master was pitiless towards the man who opposed 
him to the end. ‘Verily’ I say that one shall betray me.’ 
‘Lord, who is it?’ ‘He it is, to whom I shall give a sop, when 
I have dipped it.’ He gave it to Judas, and after the sop Satan 
entered into him. And Christ said — with what scorn, I imag- 
ine; with what relentless coldness sentencing the unhappy 
wretch not to mere death only, but to eternal death — ‘That 
thou doest, do quickly.’ ” 

“But Judas sentenced himself. And it was not only the 
betrayal. The point lies in those words, ‘Satan entered into 
him.’ It was the culminating act, this betrayal, of a life of 
surrender to evil. All through he was the traitor in the camp. 
The others true, he false. The others loving Christ; he jealous 
of Him, hating Him secretly. ‘Lord! Lord! Lord! The Lord 
says this; the Lord does that.’ He hated the presence, the 
person, the words of Christ. He hated the homage paid by 
others. Why not to him ? A clever, weak man, without prin- 


228 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ciples; a thief; a liar. Those words ‘That thou doest, do 
quickly* were but the covering of the face. The wild ass’s 
skin, year after year, had shrunk with each evil and jealous 
word, thought, look. At last came the great betrayal. All 
had gone now. Every spark of soul; every spark of good — of 
God — crushed out. Satan entered into him. He went from 
the presence of Christ, condemned; literally, the personal prin- 
ciple of evil had entered his body, mingled with his spirit. He 
is done for ; lost, an outcast, no longer human — a creature' with 
his final part to play in the great tragedy, and after that to 
be thrown away. When he left the disciples, ignorant until 
then of the being who had lived among them as their friend, 
the solid earth beneath his feet was already shifting sand.” 

“I am sorry for him, for all that. To me Judas, and not 
Christ, is the infinitely pathetic figure in that great tragedy. 
Christ met death as its conqueror — he is supposed to have 
known this great secret; to have known that he would rise 
again; to have known what lay beyond death — legions of 
angels waiting to conduct him to eternal glory and majesty 
and happiness. No; it seems to me artificial, unethical, and 
unreal.” 

“There was nothing unreal about the agony of Gethsemane 
and Calvary. Whatever Christ knew. He suffered then as 
any man would have suffered. And you are sorry also for 
Anti-Christ? For he, of course, is the other figure isolated, 
lost, condemned. A man like Judas; a weak, proud, obstinate, 
bitter man; not an ordinary man; a man, I think, almost cer- 
tainly with great gifts. A man jealous of Christ, jealous of 
God, wanting to stand alone. And that’s the awful danger of 
your attitude of detachment from humanity and the laws that 
bind others. Several men possessed that nature, that tempera- 
ment, which might have made them Anti-Christ. Swift was 
one. But Swift, hating mankind, loved Tom and Dick and 
Harry; that saved him from utter loss — not from awful suf- 
fering. Ruskin. But Ruskin’s love of beauty saved him. 
Carlyle; but Carlyle’s passion for truth saved him. Another 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 229 

man, whose name has been dragged lately through the mire. 
‘A bad man; possibly a brilliant man,* said a judge about him. 
It is amazing, the ease with which men utterly incompetent 
to condemn or appraise pass their sentence upon those head and 
shoulders above them in capacity. ‘Possibly brilliant.’ ” 

^‘You raise two points which suggest to me certain diffi- 
culties. Ruskin and Carlyle were both good men.” 

“Good men and great men. But with exactly the tempera- 
ments which, had the other path been taken, might have led 
to utter ruin. The man in the street, the man who sells you 
your gloves, your breakfast eggs, your stocks and shares, is in 
no danger of being Anti-Christ. He could not be. It is with- 
out the limits of his nature and capacity. But these men of 
commanding genius could. Look at the history of genius; 
look at the pitiful failures. Why? Because the man who is 
nearest the Gods is also nearest Hell. The fall of Lucifer 
was from Heaven itself.” 

“Shakespeare, then?” 

“No, not Shakespeare. Shakespeare stands apart, alone; 
head and shoulders above others. A commanding genius; an 
absolutely normal, sane, wholesome Englishman. ‘Oh, fie, 
Mr. Shakespeare,’ says De Quincey (I forget his exact words), 
‘your first child arrived just a little before it should have 
come.’ A pretty girl; green Warwickshire lanes and river 
banks; the common enough story of a country lad hot with the 
joy of life. Look at Swift and Stella and Vanessa. Look at 
Ruskin, at Carlyle. Look at this other man, equal, I think, 
in genius, who was, perhaps, saved from utter ruin by the love 
of a true and noble woman.” 

“You deliberately place him in line with these others?” 

“I do, deliberately. Not ‘possibly brilliant’; a man of im- 
mense, unfathomed genius. If he had not flung away his life — 
if he had lived strenuously, like these others, doing good work 
for forty or fifty years — serving his generation by the will of 
God — I can place no limit to his achievements . . . And then 
we have Leonardo da Vinci, a man who probably came nearer 


230 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

to being Anti-Christ than anyone who has yet lived. You see 
with what deftness of touch, with what intimate mastery of 
detail, Merejkowski builds up a picture which to me is abso- 
lutely convincing. You have the vague hint of sex. You see 
the pride, the artistic viewpoint, leading to detachment from 
ordinary human interests. ‘Men say? What say they? Let 
them say.’ It is nothing to him, humanity with its strivings, 
its sufferings, its ideals, its aspirations, its beliefs, is^ nothing to 
him. Look at him at the disentombment of the statue. His 
young disciple is covered with confusion at the unveiling of its 
beauty. Men watch in aloof reverence. And he — measures 
the limbs . . . Look at him copying the features of racked 
and dying criminals. The great house of Sforza, which has 
befriended and employed him, falls; a brief marginal note 
chronicles the catastrophe; in the body of his diary on the 
same day are copious notes about the flight of a small bird. 
Flight! It was his ambition, his mania, his obsession. Man 
had conquered the earth, making it yield its fruits; the sea, 
making it bear his argosies; the fire, prisoning it within bars 
for light and comfort. And here, still unconquered, was the 
element of spirits and of gods . . . He listens to Savonarola 
preaching; the crowd are on their knees, weeping hysterically 
for their sins; his very pupil is in tears — and Da Vinci, erect, 
caricatures the preacher, his features twisted into devil in robe 
and cowl. For months he leaves blank the face of Christ in 
the Cenacolo: the others he paints; he fails in attempting this 
. . . And the end of his life is tragic failure. His great statue 
is destroyed. His great picture fades. His patron’s house has 
fallen; Ludovico himselF is a caged prisoner in exile. His 
mistress is dead. His flying machine is wrecked, costing the 
life of a pupil who essayed flight in it. Another pupil hangs 
himself in disillusion as to the character of his master. Poor, 
and in exile. Da Vinci sees a younger man, who looked up 
to him once with reverence, ride by in costly garb with glit- 
tering retinue . . . When the end comes, a disciple who stays 
faithfully with him, loving him, entreats him for his soul’s 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 231 

welfare to see the priest and take absolution. Nothing to him 
confiteor, introit, gradual, secreta; nothing the muttering of 
Mass and hoc est corpus; he is apart from man and God. But 
to please the lad who still believes in him, he goes through the 
rite that costs him nothing. And, he says, ‘Christ has no 
worshiper who strives more earnestly humbly to follow him.* 
Empty words, meaning to him nothing.” 

“Yet he was not Anfi-Christ ? And you think Anti-Christ 
is not yet come?” 

“He was not Anti-Christ; I think Anti-Christ is not yet 
come. I have said of other men, a little love saved this one; 
beauty this; truth this. I think work — keen interest in it and 
devotion to it to the very end — saved Da Vinci ... I do not 
think Anti-Christ has come, because his coming will leave so 
immense an impress on humanity. It will be the greatest 
calamity in the history of the human race. If it means war, it 
will be such war as has never been recorded ; of nations and of 
millions; on land and under land, on sea and under sea; per- 
haps in air. ‘When men fly like birds!’ Think what it means. 
A man has defeated the purposes of God; has set himself in 
the place of God. Evil has utterly defeated good. Hate has 
conquered love. You know a little, perhaps, of criminal psy- 
chology; have you ever thought of the type that kills for no- 
toriety? I mean, the men who assassinate kings and presi- 
dents, thinking ‘I can achieve fame in no other way ; I am weak, 
I am handicapped, I am small; but in this way at least I can 
stand, isolated, a pariah, yet with my place in history forever.’ 
And what is their undying fame? A nine days’ wonder and 
reproach. Who knows so much even of Ravaillac, that he 
was once an usher in a school? Fenton, Guiteau, Luccheni, 
Czolgosz — ^where are they, whose names for a few brief days 
were on all lips? It will be so with Anti-Christ, the assassin 
of God Himself.” 

“You think he will stand revealed for a time?” 

“The Bible says so. Perhaps for the nine years of Tolstoi’s 
prophecy. I think in some way men will know at last — or 


232 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

have strong reason for suspicion and belief. In lonely agony, 
reproducing in himself the sufferings of Christ — but in such 
measure as Christ Himself knew nothing of — ridiculed, buf- 
feted, isolated, shunned, spat upon; learning too late the lesson 
that life should have taught him — he will watch the ruip of the 
world’s order which he has caused. Existing yet dead; over 
the edge of space and in chaos, yet seemingly still human — one 
of those lost souls still in the body of whom Dante writes — 
tha¥ one; he will hear the tramp of confused, agonized hu- 
manity drawing near, as trembling monarchs heard the feet of 
Pretorians and Janissaries at their gates. Who has caused our 
agony? Where is the traitor in the camp, the leper tainting 
the air of the market place with his foulness? On this man 
and on that, some in high places, will fall the accusation. But 
at last Anti-Christ will be revealed.” 

“And the end?” 

“Christ died on the cross between malefactors, under a dark- 
ening sky; few to mark his agony. But the shadow of that 
obscure cross grows and will grow until it covers all man- 
kind.” 

“And Anti-Christ?” 

“ ‘Judas cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and 
departed, and went and hanged himself.’ Conspicuous for a 
moment; talked of in Sanhedrim and in street; remembered 
by the Field of Blood. Yet his work was as important to the 
world as that of Christ. He betrayed Christ, and Christ was 
crucified — by whose stripes the world is healed.” 

“Then surely, if he was appointed to do this work ” 

“It need not have been Judas. Peter, John — any of the 
disciples — might have been the one to give that kiss in the 
dark night.” 

“Well, I must be going, Maurice. Good night.” He 
paused for a moment at the window seat, to watch the lights 
and the dark huddle of roofs below. In any age, in any gen- 
eration — even now; even within these houses which his imag- 
ination saw opened and unroofed, as Teufelsdrockh saw Weiss- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 233 

nichtwo, as Cleofas saw Madrid — that might be going on 
which would culminate in the world’s calamity. Wars, rumors 
of war ... In the bowels of the mountain the hidden fire 
burns out its channel, the gases generate. On the slopes the 
village houses sleep — and start from sleep to find calamity 
upon them. 

“And then I suppose they build finer, better, securer houses 
— those that are left of them,” he muttered. 

“What’s that, Ledgar?” 

“Nothing; I was only thinking. Well, good night again. 
How cruel the world is, even if there’s only one Judas and 
one Anti-Christ! But it’s very beautiful and — fearfully in- 
teresting.” 


CHAPTER VI 


T he Beltinges extended their stay in London by several 
weeks, and Ledgar had many opportunities of seeing 
them. The egregious Miss Higgins had been the first 
cause (Curious to think of Higgins as First Cause!)' of their 
visit. Gordon, before he went back to Bulford, told Ledgar 
the story. For some months, it appeared, her conduct had 
not been satisfactory. An early indication was her brazen 
effort to substitute for “Middlemarch,” which she had been 
reading to Mrs. Beltinge, a novelette of the pronounced “Bow- 
Bells” type, full of love and orange blossom. Her plan was 
ingenious, but it miscarried. Absorbed in the narrative her- 
self, and anxious to get through it, she substituted for the names 
those of George Eliot’s heroines and heroes. But Mrs. Bel- 
tinge was too astute. She was sure there was something 
wrong; Dorothea never met a strange Duke in a London 
music hall (Higgins had to link up the two narratives), never 
looked lovingly and languishingly into his blue eyes, nor im- 
plored him to fly with her. “Give me the book. Higgins, 
what are you coming to?” She received letters in strange 
writing, with strings of black hearses as a kind of crest at the 
heading of the paper, which were read furtively, and then 
stowed surreptitiously into the flat bosom of her dress. On 
her birthday a handkerchief-box came, shaped suspiciously like 
a coffin. “I ^bought the old girl was making arrangements 
for pegging out,” said Gordon. She sighed frequently; at the 
slightest reproof burst into tears. Frequently she pressed her 
hand to her heart, but rejected with indignation Mrs. Bel- 
tinge’s offer of peppermint. “We couldn’t make out what had 
come to her,” said Gordon. “She got just like a broody old 
hen.” Mary heard her muttering once, “I can’t do it, I can’t. 
No, Joseph, I cannot consent.” “Consent to what? And 


234 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 235 

who’s Joseph?” asked Mary. No audible reply. Gordon him- 
self raked out from her room an “Advice to Wives and Young 
Mothers.” As Mrs. Beltinge remarked, with double meaning 
most improper in so old a lady (unless this was supplied by 
Gordon), “Higgins had been a most estimable person once, 
but she had really got past bearing.” Tears, storms, inatten- 
tion to her work — there was no comfort in the great house 
with her. “Grandma’s a rare good sort,” said Gordon, “but 
she’s got a nippy sort of temper of her own ; and she does like 
to have her own way. They had an awful bust up one night, 
and next morning the Higgins was missing. Only a little note 
on her pillow, blobbed over with what looked like tears, ‘I’ve 
left here. Farewell.’ And fourpence halfpenny in stamps run 
through with a pin, over the postscript, ‘P.S. — ^4jd. for my 
collarettes when they come back from the laundry.’ That was 
all. A tragedy? Not a bit of it. She had run off and got 
married to young Joseph Mould, the undertaker. What he 
could see in her except a chance for an early advertisement — 
plumes and silver mountings and all that — I can’t tell. She’s 
fifty if she’s a day; ever since I’ve known her, and that’s fifteen 
years ago, she’s been hovering about the thirties.” But it was 
jolly sporting of her, for all that, thought Gordon. 

The shock to Mrs. Beltinge, and the interruption of her 
ordinary habits, necessitated a visit to town, where the old lady 
might find relief in a round of gayety. Ledgar, and some- 
times Jelf, lunched and dined with them frequently. Some- 
times Ledgar took Mary to matinees; she would not go out 
with him in the evening unchaperoned. It was not proper. 
Would Winnie now think it improper? He wondered. Fre- 
quently he had letters from his home ; one or two from Winnie 
Campion. His father’s temper, he gathered, grew more trying 
as the years went on. The children were growing up. Young 
Ab was to be apprenticed to a draper in Came. His father 
might have done something better for the boy than that . . . 
Ledgar hated the idea of having a brother in trade. He pic- 
tured him, with large red hands, submitting collarettes for the 


236 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

inspection of Mary Beltinge. And, by and by, if he prospered, 
“Will you please walk this way, miss?” — prancing before 
Mary. Awful! He went down once or twice; the stuffy, 
overcrowded cottage; his father’s inquisitiveness, and efforts to 
lay down the law as in old years; his mother’s frequent spells 
of querulousness, not indeed now with him but with the other 
children — poor woman, she was nagged by day and night al- 
most to death — made him abridge these visits as much as 
possible. 

And then, one day, came a note which brought him down 
hot-foot to Came Bay. It was his father who wrote: “We 
are in great trouble. Your dear mother has been ailing lately, 
and has sometimes been in great pain. We called in Dr. Garn- 
ham, and he is afraid of cancer. We are sending to London 
for a specialist who is a friend of Dr. Garnham’s and will come 
down on that account at a reduced fee.” There was something 
more about the “great expense, in any case; but no doubt the 
Lord would provide.” Ledgar found his mother all fortitude 
now, all love; the querulousness gone. From the tone of the 
letter, with its clear hint of apprehension, its indication of a 
love which had not revealed itself very distinctly to his chil- 
dren, Ledgar expected to find his father changed. There was 
no change. Mr. Dunstan seemed to regard the illness as a 
personal grievance, whatever his secret mind. He buzzed and 
bustled about the house, ordering and upsetting everything. 
He nagged and bullied Mrs. Dunstan, constantly wanting her 
to try fresh remedies, constantly trying to urge on her fresh 
articles of diet ; all no doubt meant in kindness, but all seeming 
to hint, “You are upsetting everything by being ill. It’s most 
annoying. I never gave you permission to have cancer. We’re 
all jogging along as we’ve done for years, and suddenly you 
spring this awful business on us. Look at the expense! Do, 
like a sensible woman, pull yourself together; make an effort; 
and hurry up and get well. You must see that we’re doing 
everything for you. Take my advice and let’s have no more 
of this nonsense. You know you promised to obey me.” 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 237 

For once in her life Mrs. Dunstan, who had been mastered 
and overruled by him in everything, declined to obey. Ledgar 
stayed until after the operation. “Garnham says it’s gone off 
most satisfactorily,” said his father. “Couldn’t have been bet- 
ter; she took the anesthetic splendidly. Now all she has to 
do is to go on steadily and quietly, and get well.” 

Two days later, on a calm summer evening, when the tide 
was out and the pools among rocks and sand lay opalescent 
under sunset, she took the matter into her own hands, and 
quietly died. 

Mr. Dunstan bore his sorrow like a man. That it was a 
sorrow, Ledgar knew now very well. If he still felt any 
grievance, he gave no indication of it. Certainly, if he had 
suffered at “the cold hands of fate,” he bore no grudge against 
the Creator who was, in Ledgar’s eyes, responsible. “The 
Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed be the name 
of the Lord.” But why give and then take back? Why make, 
and then destroy? He tried to sum up what ther^ was to the 
good. Childhood, happy; engagement and married life, happy; 
the birth and training of children, pain and then happiness; 
long drab, uneventful years with small interests, some happi- 
ness, perhaps, in the chapel circle. Not a great deal to the 
good; yet something. Then agony; and all that was left lay 
upstairs, marred and mutilated; eyes that had watched him 
lovingly and anxiously, closed; hands that had tended him, 
still; feet that had run upstairs so often during his nights of 
terror, passive at last. Much cruelty, yet not all as he had 
thought in childhood. 

They buried her in the Came cemetery . . . Well, “time 
like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away.” 

It was a week or two after this that Ledgar took Mary to a 
matinee of “Everyman.” His recent loss brought the appeal 
of the old morality very close to him. From the kneeling 
figures by the stage side at the opening, to the curtain’s fall, he 
watched breathless, in a house tense with silence. “Every- 
man.” Some day all of you in the house will hear the rattle 


238 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

of his hollow drum. Some day all friends will pass and be 
impotent; wealth avail nothing; only Good Deeds remain to 
help. A great knight once took Death captive, and people 
ceased to die. “If I kill Death, how much suffering will be 
blotted from the world !” But Life, a sorry, draggled figure, 
came to plead for Death. She bent to whisper her story ; what 
it was, no man knows ; but Death again was set free. 

Which was better — Life or Death? 

“What an amazing little play!” he said to Mary as they 
came out. “It grips one still, after all these centuries. And 
the man who wrote it has heard the drum ; and the people who 
heard it first have heard the drum. You could have heard a 
pin drop in the house. When he was going down into the 
grave, one caught one’s breath, it was so real, so irrevocable; 
no discharge in that war.” 

Mary thought it awfully pretty, but a little dull; she liked 
something more cheerful. One saw quite enough of death 
without putting it on the stage. 

As they passed into the sunlit street, so bright after the 
somber theater, Ledgar noticed among those coming from the 
gallery two familiar figures. One, an old woman, in a check- 
ered shawl, and a marvelous bonnet with feathers of arsenic 
green. Mrs. Campion! 

And Winnie! 

His first impulse was to avoid them. It was always a 
distinction to be with Mary Beltinge ; people turned to look at 
them as they passed; a handsome couple. But Mrs. Campion 
was — well, really, not quite presentable. He had seen her 
once before starting on a visit to town ; she had her own ideas 
of costume, and some notion also of making London ladies 
look to their laurels. She hugged now, quite unblushingly, an 
enormous parcel, perhaps containing sandwiches. In the other 
hand was a great gingham umbrella, clumsily rolled, green 
with years of spray and rain. Of course, Winnie herself — but 
Mrs. Campion? He wondered what they were doing here; 
they seemed out of their element. In a theater, too ; though in 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 239 

a moment he remembered that they went to church, and would 
have no scruples as the chapel people had. More than once 
he had heard Mary speak rather contemptuously, with a little 
tip-tilting of the nose, about the common people. She did not 
share all her grandmother’s views regarding snobbery. There 
were battered pewter pitchers for the kitchen; dainty china 
ewers for ladies in the best bedroom to wash their hands and 
faces in with sponge, and rain-water, and scented soap. Each 
in its place; each to its own duty. And now she caught Led- 
gar’s arm. “Oh, do let’s hurry up and get out of this, there’s 
a dear boy. We’re getting mixed up with all those awful 
people from the pit and gallery.” 

Ledgar drew her aside, but not soon enough to evade Mrs.* 
Campion. “Oh, Ledgar, what an extraordinary looking old 
woman ! I wonder where on earth she got that bonnet ?” 

“Worth’s, I expect, Mary. If they sell bonnets; I suppose 
they do. Come on ; we can slip out this way.” 

“But I believe she’s nodding to you!” 

Mrs. Campion was not content with nodding. She was a 
managing body, liking to pull the strings; “Oh, she dew worry 
me so,” old Campion used to say. The hooked handle of the 
gingham umbrella — bone, shaped into head and curved beak of 
some weird bird — reached out for Ledgar’s arm. Just so are 
peccant sheep retrieved. Just so, perhaps, the aepyornis and 
other vast pterodactylians of a lost world may have headed off 
their prey. 

“Where are you running away to now, young man?” The 
russet, wrinkled face, battered by the sprays of seventy years, 
drew near him through the press. He had seen it so often, 
bound round with a dingy cotton handkerchief, as she fastened 
the wet bathing things to the line with wooden pegs. “I’ve 
got him, Winnie,” she cried exultantly. “Come along, my gel. 
I’ve hooked your grandfeyther many a time with that old um- 
berella. Well, what’s the matter now? You’re a nice sort of 
young party to bring up to Lunnon for a day’s pleasuring.” 

Winnie seemed to have said, “Oh, Grandma, don’t.” 


240 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Why should a nice, dear, pretty little maid have such a 
grandmother ? Ledgar saw the wisdom now, for the first time, 
of that solemn admonition at the church doors, “A man shall 
not marry his grandmother.’* But once he had thought her a 
jolly, kind old lady, when he went to tea with Winnie, and old 
Mr. Campion told his stories of ancient wars ... It was his 
first encounter with her in such circumstances, and the old 
dame was quite obviously out on pleasure. 

“Well, and how are you, Ledgar? Winnie was hoping 
we might meet you, though I says to her, says I, Lunnon isn’t 
a little village like Came, my gel; there’s more than one street 
in Lunnon. And who’s your corncubine?” 

Really it was too appalling. And people were staring at 
them. What would she say next? 

“You must introjooce us. A little joke between us and him, 
miss, about them corncubines. His feyther told him once that 
corncubines were Solomon’s lady friends, and when he was a 
little boy he used to call the old ladies at the chapel his corn- 
cubines. Oh, your feyther’s got such a nasty boil, Ledgar. 
It don’t make his temper no better, I can tell you ; he’s like an 
angry old hen that can’t get its eggs to hatch out. My grand- 
darter, Winnie.” 

Mary said “How do you do” very charmingly, but with 
just the faintest suspicion of words iced during close weather. 
She made no movement to shake hands; nor did Winnie. It 
looked almost as if the two girls measured swords. 

This would not do for Mrs. Campion. “Not too proud to 
shake hands? That’s right. Well, you’ll be wondering what 
we’re doing in town, Ledgar, and at the theayter. Gloomy 
sort of piece, wasn’t it? The vicar preached about it a few 
Sundays ago — Quinquinquin — Quinquag — whatever was it, 
Winnie?” 

“Quinquagesima Sunday, Grandma,” said Winnie, quite ac- 
curately. 

“That’s it. I saw it in the prayer-book, and I thought, 
*That’s a nice word to remember, now. I’ll make a note of it.’ 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 241 

Quin for quinsy; and I dew suffer from them so bad. Quag, 
like a duck, you know. That’s how I remember things. I 
always was one for eddication. It was me got Winnie sent to 
school with Ledgar, miss. Her grandfeyther, now, thoft the 
National School as did for us’d do for her. But you see, Win- 
nie’s feyther, who was drownded — Monday, March 17, 1875, 
and they brought him home, poor lad, two o’clock Sunday 
afternoon the twenty- third, which I remember, just having 
finished my lamb and green peas for dinner, though neither 
your grandfeyther nor me had much heart for it — he was our 
only boy. Did you ever have quinsys, miss?” 

No, Mary had not had quinsys. 

“Mumps, perhaps? Well, you’ve been fortunate.” 

Ledgar did hope she wasn’t going to ask about boils. 

“Well, mumps is something like quinsys in a way, only 
more so; but not so painful. I remember ” 

Ledgar intervened to suggest tea. Miss Beltinge and he 
were just going to Buller’s. Perhaps Mrs. Campion and 
Winnie would come too? 

He hesitated between Lockwood’s and Buller’s. It was 
like the problem of geese and fox crossing the stream. He 
could not take Mary very well into Lockwood’s. Could he 
take Mrs. Campion to Buller’s? With her egregious arsenic- 
plumed bonnet? 

Mrs. Campion was quite agreeable. She hoped Buller’s was 
respectable; they always went to Lockwood’s, which was very 
nice. Select, she called it; if it was a little dear. Twogence 
for a cup of tea now — why, at the Blue Ribbon Arms at Came 
you could get tea and a slice of bread and butter for a penny. 
But then Lunnon was a dear place; no denying it. 

She opened her eyes when they came to Bullet’s. Screens, 
Japanese fans, girls in Japanese dresses, men in silk hats and 
elegantly dressed women, thin rolled bread and butter, tea-cake 
and muffins, cakes — such cakes! Ice on top; or chocolate; 
and all squashy cream inside. Scrumptious! Oh, they were 
enjoying themselves. But (in an awed whisper) what about 


242 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

the bill? Reassured by Ledgar. Mr. Campion once took her 
to a matinee; not like the one they’d just been to; he wouldn’t 
have cared for that at all. Girls in tights, he fancied; and she 
had to humor him. There seemed to have been more competi- 
tion for young men when she was a girl; she remembered all 
the other girls staring when she left their gallery the first 
Sunday to sit in the pew with him and his people, and how 
they nudged each other, and passed the word round, “Han- 
nah’s got a beau at last!” At last! Like their imperence; she 
was five years younger than Sally Perkins, and she wasn’t en- 
gaged, and never did get engaged, neither. What was she 
saying? Oh, about the play. Well, people do die, we know 
very well; but why make so many bones about it? Why put 
it in a play? What did Miss Beltinge think? 

Miss Beltinge thought the play awfully pretty, but a little 
dull. And what about the time, Ledgar? 

“Oh, you aren’t in a hurry, miss? I’ve not nearly done yet, 
nor’s Winnie. Eat up, my gel; it isn’t every day you come to 
Lunnon. Hi, miss, how much are those things with pink ice 
on top? Well, we’ll have half each. Oh, I was talking about 
your grandfeyther and me in Lunnon, Winnie. He took me 
into a tea-shop after the theayter, and gel-like, not thinking 
about his pocket, I had a rare feed. I thoft it was mean of 
him suggesting more bread and butters and thinking cake might 
disagree with me, and it put me on my mettle. When it came 
to paying, our bill was one-and-nine, and he’d only sevenpence- 
halfpenny. What do you think he done? Now what would 
you ha’ done, miss?” 

“I really haven’t the least idea,” said Mary. “And what 
did he do, Mrs. Champion?” 

“Campion, my dear, not Champion. It’s the name of a 
flower. Grandfeyther used to say when he was chaffey-like, 
poor old dear, ‘By any other name, Hannah, you’d smell as 
sweet.’ He got that out of some book. Ah, he was a rare 
one for his joke when he was a laad, Grandfer were, Winnie; 
though so tame when you knowed him. I says to him once, 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 243 

‘You couldn’t say Boh to a goose, my dear/ And he says 
‘Boh’ to me. Oh, how I did laugh! He wanted managing, 
of course, like all menfolk; but if I covered him up like the 
parrot when he got too obstropulous I could always get a little 
peace. Best story he ever told was about when he put the fat 
old lady in the fat old gentleman’s bathing machine by mistake 
and it turned out all right, because they were long-lost hus- 
band and wife. Oh, and there was that other about the 
old lady who had to wear a gentleman’s bathing costume, 
and ” 

“Hush, Grandma!” pleaded Winnie. 

“Well, my dear, we’m all friends here, a’nt we? I was 
telling you about the tea-shop, though. There was a gentle- 
man in front of us with only a 4d. ticket, ’cause he’d only had 
tea and bread and butter. While he was reading the paper, 
Grandfeyther changed the tickets. He! He! Of course, I 
only heard about it afterwards.” 

Ledgar was painfully conscious that half the staff and half 
the customers in Buffer’s were waiting for the conclusion of 
the story. 

“Ledgar, we really must be going,” said Mary. 

After a small squabble about payment, Mrs. Campion being 
particularly anxious that the price of the pink cake should be 
challenged, the old lady began to collect her parcels. “Now 
where did I put them sausages? You’re not sitting on them, 
Winnie? I dew hope you’re not. Miss Beltinge. Oh, here 
they are. It give me quite a shock for a minute; I gave ten- 
pence for them, and I wouldn’t have had them squashed for 
anything. That’s a penny cheaper than Joliffe’s at Came Bay; 
I’ll tell them dreckly-minute I get back . . . Well, we have 
had a day. Oh, I didn’t tell you how we came up to town. 
You tell them, Winnie; I’m that breathless with my asthma. 
Have you ever had asthma. Miss Beltinge?” 

Mary had not. 

Winnie hurriedly broke in to explain that Mrs. Campion, 
having lately found the bathing establishment too much for 


244 T'he Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

her strength, had accepted an offer to retire from business from 
a newcomer who was erecting baths with indoor hot sea-water 
baths near the pier. The excursion was to celebrate this. 
“But I dew think the vicar might send people to something 
more cheerful for their money.’* 

Ledgar saw them into their bus. Mrs. Campion, as she 
said good-by, wondered whether he was engaged. “No, oh no.” 

“Nor’s Winnie.” Did Winnie blush? She glanced at Led- 
gar, but her eyes were always inscrutable. 

“Winnie would be chough if she had a beau,” said Mrs. 
Campion with what sounded like significance. 

“Grandma, how can you be so silly? And I’m sure I don’t 
know what chough means. We’ll lose the bus if you don’t 
hurry. Mind, the sausages are falling out. I’ll tuck them in 
for you. Good-by, Miss Beltinge. Good-by, Ledgar.” 

Her eyes seemed to hold his for a moment . . . Long, long, 
since she had raced barefoot with him on the sands at Came 
Bay. For a second he held her hand. “Good-by, Winnie.” 
He had wondered in Buffer’s whether the ungloved hand were 
not a little coarser, a little redder than it might have been — 
than Mary’s. And he had put the thought from him. She 
was Winnie. 

Stiff, her hands had wrung out those bathing things heavy 
with salt water; had pinned them to the line, and hoisted 
props; had helped even sometimes to drive round or hold back 
the thick wooden spokes of the machine wheels. At the same 
time Mary Beltinge was doing art-needlework, painting ar- 
morial bearings in argent, vert, and gules, and azure. 

He turned away with Mary Beltinge. “What an extra- 
ordinary old woman ! But the girl’s awfully pretty, don’t you 
think so, Ledgar? It’s a pity she has so little to say for 
herself.” 

“They’re old friends of mine,” said Ledgar. “She went to 
a dame’s school I was at; and I used to have tea sometimes at 
their cottage.” 

“Quite romantic, meeting her like this, then. And are you 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 245 

in love with one another? Because I thought when her grand- 
mother spoke about her being engaged ” 

“I in love!” 

It was a non-committal answer. Was he? If he were not 
so many people . . He did not know what to think about 
the encounter. Chagrin struggled with his sense of humor. 

Suddenly he stood still in the street and burst out laughing. 

“I was thinking of Mrs. Campion’s sausages!” he said. “I 
say, we’d better take a cab; we’ll be late for dinner. Mrs. 
Campion always was a character. She and her husband used 
to keep us children in fits of laughter.” 

He was a little sorry for that laugh, when he collected the 
thoughts and actions of the day. He was a little sorry that his 
eyes had glanced at Winnie’s hand. 

Those inscrutable, perplexing eyes seemed on him still, in 
question and in challenge. 

And Mary Beltinge, stately and handsome as a young queen 
— Mary Beltinge, whose people had come over before the 
Conquest, “with Julius Csesar, or Noah, or someone” — Mary 
Beltinge had placed a hand quite without suspicion of reproach 
upon his sleeve, and said, “Oh, do let’s get out of this, there’s 
a dear boy. We’re getting mixed up with all those awful 
people from the pit and gallery.” ' 

Oh, he wished he were not quite so many people. “But the 
world’s wonderfully interesting,” he thought, as he turned over 
on his pillow. 


CHAPTER VII 


T he advice and influence of Jelf turned Ledgar’s literary 
work into more desirable channels. With some reluc- 
tance, he abandoned his efforts to make progress with 
the penny magazines from which he had secured occasional 
guineas. He no longer, at the rate of seven hundred words 
for twenty-one shillings, told people alliteratively about “Poul- 
terers’ Peculiar Pets,” “Lunatic Literature,’’ or “Chemists’ 
Curious Customers.” He no longer inquired plaintively, “Why 
Don’t Men Propose?” or “Why Do Watchmakers Wear 
Whiskers?” He no longer instructed readers of pink, yellow, 
and green weeklies how to live on five shillings a week; how 
much it costs to be cremated ; or how it felt to be electrocuted. 
He gave up an even more remunerative because more regular 
branch of work; the writing of stories to wood-cuts for boys’ 
papers. To the making of these, enough ingenuity had gone 
for the construction of half a dozen novels; the artists ran riot 
in devising impossibly thrilling situations; boys bound to trees 
with slow fires under their feet and knives at their bosoms; 
boys on the edges of precipices attacked by eagles while ava- 
lanches rattled down overhead; boys on burning vessels with 
the pistols of buccaneers brandished in their faces ; boys strapped 
on the backs of horses, with wolves pursuing them, and bears 
barring the way in front. Ledgar often wished that these 
irresponsible artists, reveling so disgustingly in gore, might be 
sentenced sometimes to fit plots to their own work; or, better 
still, to enact the parts of the Jacks, Toms, Berts, Sids, Harrys, 
and Dicks who were compelled by his pen to pass through these 
incredible adventures. 

Comfortably installed in chambers, he now gave himself up 
in grim earnest to literary work. He enlarged his small library, 
already enriched by several works of reference and history 

246 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 247 

saved from the sale of Mr. Muttleboy’s effects. He bought 
an alarm clock, and broke it in — a necessary proceeding, in 
order to cure it of breaking out, which it did most alarmingly 
at all hours during the first few nights, even to the extent of 
bringing in Mrs. Folley — quilt-clad and poker-armed — who 
seemed under the impression that a new-fangled type of “burgu- 
lar,” courteous enough to give notice of his approach in this 
fashion (perhaps a converted “burgular”), was invading Mar- 
low’s Inn. After another night, spent in sleepless misery 
partly through the noise of its ticking, partly because of his 
anxiety not to miss the hour for waking, he succeeded in cur- 
ing its eccentricities. A secondhand typewriter, somewhat the 
worse for wear, had also to be mastered. Its keys suffered 
from incipient lockjaw; its carriage from some form of loco- 
motor ataxia; its ribbon-spools possibly from gout — they cer- 
tainly seemed incapable of running; its bell from spasms; its 
ribbon from some obscure kind of phlebitis. Sometimes taking 
prodigious leaps, sometimes showing a strange reluctance to 
move at all, the machine succeeded in either creating a hiatus 
of several inches between the letters of a word, or in piling a 
forest of letters one upon another as an elephant piles logs. 
A new ribbon, a liberal supply of oil, and two or three severe 
operations with a screwdriver overcame these difficulties also. 

He was at last in a position to start. Four hours was to be 
his working day; one in the morning, three at night. He was 
obliged after some experiment to reduce the last to two. And 
then came the question: What was to be the monumental 
work? 

A novel, of course; that was understood from the beginning. 
He went over the chapter he had already written. It was 
largely autobiographical, and he foresaw that very shortly ma- 
terial for this would run out. What had he experienced? 
What had his own life been? Childhood, school, office life; 
the lot of thousands of men who passed him every day in Lon- 
don streets. Perrin had seen more of life. Tidmarsh had had 
more adventures. And what did he know of life? What 


248 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

philosophy of life had he? He knew nothing. He subscribed 
to no creed; he had formulated no opinions; he had nothing 
to teach or tell others. He cast aside the idea of himself as 
central figure of a story. Jelf suggested historical fiction. He 
selected a dozen picturesque figures, and read something of 
their lives and histories. Monmouth — picturesque enough, 
poor half-king, going into battle behind his blue banner with 
the open Bible, coming out of it to crawl and cringe at the 
feet of his implacable kinsman. A weak, tragic, pathetic ghost 
— but his story had been told so often. Cavalier; Montrose. 
A fine period that; splendidly dramatic, that picture of Hamil- 
ton’s dour old mother waiting with loaded pistols to shoot her 
son if he set foot on Scottish soil; and there was Montrose 
going into action for the last time on a forlorn hope, his cav- 
alry dressed in black, his flag white, with black blazonry. Or 
his death, again, giving the gold piece to the hangman “for 
driving his triumphal chariot so well.” But could he make 
more of the story than had been made of it already? Not a 
period, not a character of any eminence or glamour, that had 
not been annexed already. 

Jelf did not think so. There were many periods and char- 
acters comparatively untouched; and always opportunity for 
fresh treatment. Ledgar seemed to have the color sense; any- 
thing picturesque attracted him ; he could visualize. A corona- 
tion, an execution, a court, an elopement, a coaching incident — 
given a hint to work on, he could reconstruct the scene in 
every detail of line and color. Tell him of Mary Tudor wait- 
ing on that rainy day to meet her lover ; of Charles Stuart the 
Young Pretender, grown old, dissipated, ruined in health and 
cause, meeting after long, long years his portly and thriving 
brother, the Cardinal of York; tell him how, in the ruins of 
Badajoz, Wellington was forced to drink to his army by 
drunken, maddened soldiers; of Mazarin saying farewell to 
his pictures; of the Conqueror putting his swart shoulders 
to the wheels of his wagons in the northern snowdrifts ; of the 
song of rowers on the misty water by Ely — he saw every- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 249 

thing; knew what passed in the minds of those who were the 
chief actors; to the hiccough of a drunken rifleman, the ennui 
of a lady in waiting, the blood of a wounded man staining 
the snow — he knew everything. Visualization if you like; 
S5nnpathetic imagination if you care. 

But a long connected novel? He started twice or thrice; 
now with a story of the Dutch Republic, now with the Hun- 
dred Days after Elba. After the first chapter or two, it 
seemed to hang fire. 

“It’s no good, Jelf,” he said. “I don’t seem to make any 
headway. The thing goes all right at first; then it seems to 
fizzle out into boy’s story and Snippy Bits. I want to stick 
them up trees with bulls underneath, and birds of prey trying 
to peck their eyes out. Or else I want to make them talk like 
my barber, in ‘What My Barber Said’ — the thing Attewell 
gave me two guineas for. I think the sort of thing I’ve 
been doing is bad training. I almost made Boney say, ‘Well, 
I’m jiggered! Here’s Josephine.’ Of course, I didn’t really, 
but boys always say, ‘Well, I’m jiggered, here’s Dick,’ if 
they’re being roasted by cannibals, and Dick turns up in the 
nick of time with a lasso, or a forest fire at his back, or some 
other ridiculous thing to set them free — which of course, he 
always does. The dialogue in these historical things really 
is an awful difficulty. You either get a War dour Street archaic 
effect, or else something too utterly modern. I caught myself 
slipping from ‘Gramercy’ and ‘Marry’ to ‘I’m bio wed.’ And 
I don’t suppose they said either in Holland three hundred 
years ago, or in France a hundred. Seriously, it is a diflfi- 
culty.” 

“Why not try Italy as a background?” suggested Jelf. 
^‘You’re going there with me, and there’s any amount of color. 
Of course, a good deal has been written, but there’s a lot to 
be done yet. The Courts of II Moro or Lorenzo the Magnifi- 
cent, for instance. Or the lives of some of the Popes; the 
Borgias — Alexander the Sixth, for example, that amiable Vice- 
regent of Christ who wanted when dying to have the blood 


250 The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 

of three innocent children injected in his veins; not, like Inno- 
cent the Eighth, children of seven years, but unweaned babes. 
'I love children. Quite young ones; little white ones; they 
whose blood is pure and scarlet. Sinite puerulos venire ad met* 
There are any number of picturesque characters. Poliziano, 
for instance, Bandello, Cardinal Bembo, Baldassare Cas- 
tiglione, Verrocchio, Cecilia, Gallerani, Beatrice d’Este, Paolo 
Ucello — any number of them. I thought of building a short 
story round one or two myself ; the setting is' so bright with 
color. They seem to stand out against a background of arras 
or mosaic; court scenes, hunting scenes, palace gardens, studios, 
pageants — everything picturesque. But my gift is a very small 
one. I could never fill a canvas; a cameo is the most I could 
achieve, while you ” 

“My dear Maurice, I know nothing of Italy and Italian 
life in the Renaissance. Of course, I mean to read something 
about it before we start; to tackle a little Italian, I suppose, 
as well ; but a novel — Pm afraid it’s beyond me.” 

“Well, have a shot. By the way, have you read much 
Browning? Read him. He’s immense; as great in his own 
way as Shakespeare. He wants digging out, of course. But 
the way he builds up a character, touch after touch — ^you can 
see the brush-strokes — is marvelous. You can’t get at him 
with one reading, of course. Try some of the shorter pieces — 
Tlougram,’ for instance — and work up to ‘The Ring and the 
Book’ and ‘Sordello’ . . . I’ve often wished I could write, 
Ledgar; it’s a great gift and a great responsibility. The worst 
of it is that so often men who have the genius don’t know 
how to use it, and spoil things. Browning and Shakespeare 
were too great to do that.” 

“I suppose it’s the small men who do.” 

“Small in one way. Not necessarily of less genius; but 
men who lose their way through the handicap which accom- 
panies great gifts. You know what they say of Paracelsus? 
He made three homunculi, King and Queen and Tailor, and 
kept them in bottles. Why not bottle a few of these Renais- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 251 

sance tyrants, and duchesses, and painters, and poets, and 
popes?” 

“I’ll have a shot.” 

As a preliminary, he read some of Bro'wning’s shorter poems, 
a guide to Florence, and “Romola.” The last left him breath- 
less. What is the use, after that? He commenced a chapter, 
but the wires of his puppets were stiff; they would not move. 
A week-end at Came Bay gave him an idea, practicable, but 
much more humble. He mentioned it to Jelf. 

“Have you ever been to Came Bay, Maurice?” He had 
never asked him to stay there; of course, it was an open secret 
that he did possess a father and brothers and sisters, but — well, 
Maurice would not have a wildly exciting time, with his father 
talking all the time about chapel, and young Ab jabbering about 
his “premiums” and his fines. Why couldn’t they have found 
something better for the boy to do than that? 

“I don’t get on very well with my father, you know,” he 
went on, “and generally I spend most of my time when I’m 
down there mooning about the place.” Jelf thought it a pity 
he did not get on with his father, who was probably the best 
friend he had. 

“Well, I don’t. He seems to get on my nerves. My own 
people always do, somehow. I’ve never analyzed it — there’s 
the fact.” 

“Queer sort of fact,” commented Jelf dryly. “Who’s most 
to blame, I wonder? Still, go on.” 

“There’s an odd sort of place there called Wind Hill. It 
runs up from the sea-front; about twenty bay-windowed old 
houses first, with a cobbled road half covered over with grass. 
It’s chained off from the esplanade, and carts never go up 
it; all pedestrian traffic, except the butcher-boy riding through. 
There’s a peppery old major who takes riding exercise, but 
he always mounts at the esplanade. The people who live 
there are quite the aristocracy of the Bay; old spinster ladies 
who give card parties, a retired admiral, two or three old army 
men and civil servants.” 


252 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Quite Cranfordy/* said Jelf. 

“Exactly. That’s just what I thought ... It runs up-hill 
after that, with a house or two here and there, as if — as if 
it had lost its teeth through age; tamarisk grows wild by the 
roadside. And at the top of Wind Hill there’s quite a big 
house; a fine place once; it’s empty, and there are great rooms 
with faded gildings and frescoes, and torn wall papers, and the 
wreckage of a fine garden; the French doors leading from the 
drawing-room hang on their hinges, and the glass is broken. 
We boys used to be frightened of the place at night; it was 
supposed to be haunted. The story is that a young Irish girl 
and her husband were killed there one summer night in the 
eighteenth century. She was engaged to a lad whom she had 
known from childhood; but another man, an Irish baronet, 
wanted her; and he challenged her lover to a duel on the eve 
of their marriage and killed him. He was older than she; and, 
of course, after that she would have nothing to say to him, 
and shut herself away from society, all heart for life gone 
cut of her. But he did not give up hope, and at last, to the 
surprise of everyone, she accepted him . . . They were mar- 
ried one glorious June day, at the little Catholic chapel over 
at Came. It was arranged that they should go next day to 
Italy for the honeymoon. They had dinner together in the 
drawing-room, and walked afterwards in the garden, which 
was full of roses; the servants said they seemed very merry; 
the bride even merrier than her husband. But when they were 
in their room at night there seemed to be some altercation ; not 
exactly words between them ; the man seemed pleading, the girl 
willful, mischievous, provoking in a way . . . And the next 
day they were found lying dead together in the garden, their 
blood among the roses.” 

“What an extraordinary yarn! But why on earth lying 
dead? It’s a lame conclusion.” 

“Well, the story is — of course no one really saw what hap- 
pened — that the girl, walking backwards from him and pro- 
voking him, just in a kind of wild mischief — not angrily at 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 253 

all — passed through the French windows opening on to a 
balcony outside the room. It was a summer night, and they 
were unfastened. When she reached the parapet she turned 
suddenly and threw herself over. Revenge, you see; planned 
carefully, and carefully concealed at the wedding and during 
the dinner and their walk in the garden when they were both 
so jolly. A silver candlestick was found among the broken 
bushes. He must have rushed back for it to the room; and 
then, peering into the violet darkness, either have lost his bal- 
ance, or flung himself deliberately after his bride. They say 
that a man in eighteenth-century dress can be seen on the an- 
niversary of the night, looking out with a lighted candle in a 
silver candlestick over the garden. Jack Newport and I got 
out one night to investigate; but we saw nothing.’^ 

Jelf sat listening to the narrative with head bent, face in 
hands. 

Ledgar thought he was inattentive; that the story did not 
interest him. 

“Of course,” he began apologetically, as Jelf remained silent, 
“I don’t say there’s much in the yarn, or that anything could 
be made of it. Still ” 

“On the contrary, I think worked up a little it would make 
an excellent story.” He paused, and Ledgar noticed to his 
intense astonishment that his eyes were dim. “But a sad one 
— a very sad one. The world is sad. I think that is the word 
you should use rather than ‘cruel,’ which you use so often . . . 
Somewhere in Central Africa, Ledgar, there’s a river which 
holds some potent magic. When the chief of the district crosses 
it, he is carried blindfold by men who sing until they reach 
the farther shore. If he looks with uncovered eyes, he is 
struck blind. Some people make their passage through this 
world without the singing; some find it helps them, like your 
friends at Ebenezer Chapel. But all must go blindfold, or 
they may be blinded by what they see. It’s amazing how pro- 
found a truth is hidden sometimes under the crudest customs 
and beliefs. Some day, perhaps, men will see more clearly 


254 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

how all legend, all myth, all custom is linked together in one 
chain of universal truth . . . Well, go on ; what more about 
Wind Hill? I think you have hit upon a workable idea at 
last.” 

“Oh, there are the smuggling tales, of course; a man was 
shot just by the chains; and the riding officer lived for a time, 
they say, at the corner house. Then the crier today is quite 
an oddity. I think I can make something of it all.” 

“Well, have a shot, and let’s see how the first chapter or so 
works out.” 

Ledgar re-read Cranford ; this was to be his model, a model 
unapproachable, of course, but giving just the atmosphere he 
needed. The first chapter went rather stiffly. By the third 
he had got into his stride. He began to take an interest in 
his characters. They seemed to him to have individuality; 
he became interested himself in the chat over cards and dishes 
of China tea; in his old post-captain’s stories; in the spinsters’ 
love affairs; in the tittle-tattle of those days of lace and laven- 
der and pot-pourri which he was describing. 

“Not at all bad,” was Jelf’s verdict. 

As he progressed they spent a good many hours discussing 
situations which afterwards found their way into the manu- 
script. 

It was at his suggestion that Jelf agreed to illustrate some 
of the incidents and characters. The dainty black-and-white 
drawings met with Ledgar’s complete approval; they would 
enhance immensely the value of his book . . . When it was 
completed, Jelf suggested a publisher who had already brought 
out a small book of his verses. 

“I’d no idea you’d had anything published yourself, Maurice. 
You never told me about it.” 

“Only this. My excuse is that given by Marryat’s small 
servant — is it Marryat’s? — ^when a baby was born that hadn’t 
ought to. ‘Please, sir, it’s only a very little one.’ ” 

Charming and dainty verses, Ledgar thought; slight as they 
were — sonnets to dim ladies of lost years; a chant royal and 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 255 

virelay; essays in Italian forms such as the rispetto and the 
Tuscan and Umbrian stornello. Some held memories of 
fragile china, lilac, fans and lace; some were bright with red 
wine and love and Italian sunshine. Not great work, perhaps, 
but good and careful — and dainty. Yes, dainty was the word 
for these and all else that Jelf attempted. 

They waited anxiously for some weeks; the manuscript came 
back with a polite note — “unsuitable.” 

Cold water, this, on very warm and lively hopes. But there 
were plenty of publishers in London; if Brown and Topley 
did not know their business well enough to recognize a good 
thing when they saw it, others might. They tried again. 
“Courage, Ledgar,” said Jelf after the fourth time of refusal, 
“my poems came back fifteen times; I just covered postal ex- 
penses by their sale. We might try an agent, perhaps.” 

Armed with one or two addresses, Ledgar took the manu- 
script to the neighborhood of Covent Garden. Over a shop 
stocked with somewhat dingy theatrical costumes, bewigged 
heads, jeweled swords and daggers, tinsel crowns, and quan- 
tities of photographs of actresses, and apologies for dresses 
that would have delighted the heart of Tidmarsh, he found 
offices labeled in large lettering on door and windows, “The 
Cosmopolitan Literary and Dramatic Agency . . . Mr. James 
Telfer.” He waited for a quarter of an hour in a room lit- 
tered with papers, and with large lithograph portraits of lit- 
erary men — Carlyle, Dickens, Scott, Thackeray, Shapespeare — 
on the walls. The only occupants were a particularly gummy 
and smeary office boy and a young lady tapping vigorously at 
a typewriter. From an inner room marked “Private, Mr. 
James Telfer,” rose and fell the sounds of conversation which 
seemed somewhat heated. “Take it or leave it, my dear sir; 
take it or leave it,” said what appeared to be the voice of Mr. 
Telfer. “Historical fiction’s a drug in the market. You’re 
lucky to have had that offer. The book-market’s putrid; ab- 
solutely. There’s nothing doing. You know Miss Jessica 
Hobday? The year before last she made lots of money out 


256 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

of her books. And only last Monday she was in here begging 
me to lend her thirty shillings to get her typewriter out of 
pawn. Simply nothing doing.” 

A lower, apologetic voice rumbled on for a few minutes. 

“Yes, but, my dear sir, you must remember you’re not the 
only fish in the sea now, nor the biggest.” 

If an author who evidently had some reputation, and could 
at least get his work accepted, had so much difficulty in plac- 
ing it to his satisfaction, it seemed a poor outlook for Ledgar’s 
first attempt. The big fish reminded him of Mary Beltinge. 
She had won the prize at the Came Bay Sea-Angling Competi- 
tion for the largest single fish; Gordon asked her chaffingly 
what the largest married fish was like. He had told Mary 
about the book; she was looking forward eagerly to its accept- 
ance. If it never were accepted? 

A small man in slouch hat and cape shuffled out, very de- 
jectedly. “Next, Miss Holloway,” shouted Telfer. 

“Mr. Dunstan.” 

Ledgar was ushered into a room which seemed a small dupli- 
cate of the first, except that at a roll-top desk, covered with 
manuscripts in brown paper covers, sat a gentleman with a long, 
bald head and immense sandy whiskers. He gave the impres- 
sion at first sight of an ostrich egg half buried in the sand; 
especially as he held his head down over some papers. When 
he looked up, Ledgar had a swift impression of a flaming red 
tie, and two very keen blue eyes fixed upon him over the rim 
of spectacles tied with string behind his head. 

“Ah, Mr. Dunstan. Sit down; we don’t charge for chairs; 
that’s about all we can afford not to charge for just now. 
Well, what’s your real name?” 

“Ledgar Dunstan.” 

“Your real name? Not a nom de plume? Because for six 
months I was corresponding with a Miss Belinda Brookes — 
perhaps you know her name; specialist on felox, gillaroo, and 
the management of children — and when she called to 
I found she had a long beard and wore trousers.” 


see me 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 257 

“No, it’s my real name.” 

“I always ask. Now what is it you want?” 

“I’ve brought a book ” 

“Book? My dear sir, what is the use of bringing a book 
to me? Look here — and there — and there.” He pointed to 
a cupboard, a glass case, to drawers, to his desk. Books, books, 
books. 

“Well, let’s have a look at it. Ah, historical. Now I’ve 
thirty-seven historical novels going in and out like boomerangs ; 
not a ghost of a chance. Much obliged, but ” 

“It isn’t exactly a historical novel,” said Ledgar. Mr. 
Telfer took it back and glanced at it again. “Oh, religious. 
If it’s religious I can’t touch it. Much obliged. Send it to 
the S.P.C.K. or the R.T.S. or the S.S.U. No good to us. 
Can’t do anything with tracts.” 

“But it’s not really religious either.” 

“Irreligious, eh? I strictly draw the line at atheistical 
works. Can’t have my name associated with them. I caught 
sight of a hymn line, and that made me think it was religious. 
Of course, if you take up the line of ridicule . . .” 

“But I don’t, I don’t,” cried Ledgar, as the unhappy book 
was bandied to and fro between his hands and Mr. Telfer’s. 
“It’s on the lines of Cranford, only . . .” 

“Cranford? Cranford? Never heard of it. Sounds like 
some kind of jam. Well, let’s have a look at it. H’m; ha. 
Ever written anything before?” 

“For boys’ papers and the penny weeklies. Nothing much.” 

“Thought so. Snippety Bits; I know. Guessed as much 
directly I glanced at the dialogue. Very kind of you, but . . .” 

“I’m sorry we can’t arrange anything. Good afternoon.” 

“Good afternoon. You’ve brought a good deal of mud in 
with you; would you mind asking Miss Holloway to bring 
in a dust-pan and brush, as you go out?” 

Mr. Telfer seemed extremely angry. He began to scratch 
furiously with a quill pen at a sheet of foolscap. Ledgar was 
closing the door, when he spun round suddenly on his revolv- 


258 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ing chair, pushed his stringed spectacles farther back over his 
ears, and said, “Let’s have a look at that stuff again. H’m; ha. 
Who’s this Miss Cockell w^ith a yellow nose?” 

“A spinster lady living in Wind Hill.” 

“Do the ladies in Wind Hill have yellow noses?” 

“Oh, no, of course not. The original is a lady I know ” 

“My dear sir, you’ve taken an actual character from life! 
We shall be ruined with libel actions if you do that.” He 
was just saying “Much obliged” again, when Ledgar hurriedly 
told the story of Mrs. Beltinge, and suggested that he could 
easily, if Mr. Telfer thought proper, cut the nose out. 

“Not at all, not at all. Cut it off, you mean. I’ll be no party 
to cutting a lady’s nose off. Leave it there by all means. Un- 
less you like to give her an artificial nose instead. A friend 
of mine wore one, made of celluloid ; most attractive ; he bought 
them by the half-dozen, warranted to wash and not to shrink. 
Their only disadvantage was that they blew up sometimes 
when he lit his cigarettes. I don’t know how the idea strikes 
you. Of course you can’t have a spinster lady wandering about 
without a nose at all. H’m; ha. Who’s this old sailor per- 
son? You’ve given him a wooden leg. Another real char- 
acter?” 

“Old Campion, very much disguised.” 

“My dear sir, are all your acquaintances freaks? Now 
I’ll tell you what I should suggest. Why not try writing ad- 
vertisements for Madame Tussaud or Barnum? You could 
do that splendidly. Or for the Surgical Aid. Try our yel- 
low noses; best blowers in the market. Why wear legs? 
Glass eyes, sixpence plain, a shilling colored ; all made to wind 
up. Wear Tomkinson’s tin stomachs. A boon to young hus- 
bands. Digest anything, cake, coke, or cucumber. Never wear 
out. Lend me your ears ” 

“Thank you,” said Ledgar. “Much obliged. Good after- 
noon.” 

“Hi, wait a minute. What are you in such a dickens 
of a hurry for? I’ll run through it if you care to leave the 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 259 

stuif; though, of course, it hasn^t a ghost of a chance. Our 
reading fee is a guinea, returnable if we place the manuscript. 
Of course, that means we stick to it. Terms, ten per cent. , . . 
ril let you know later what I think of the stuff. Good after- 
noon.’* 

Ledgar was in the street again before he quite realized 
what had happened. It was satisfactory, at least, that the 
manuscript was to be read. Or was it satisfactory? On sec- 
ond thoughts he was a little doubtful. Mr. James Telfer had 
required a tremendous amount of pressing; he had shown a 
great deal of reluctance even to look at the manuscript; but 
he had executed a volte face directly Ledgar showed serious 
signs of umbrage and departure, and he had pocketed the guinea 
with a dexterity looking like long practice. Altogether, Led- 
gar, who had heard certain stories of the wiles of publishers 
on commission and literary and dramatic agents, was more than 
a little doubtful. He almost decided to go back and demand 
the return of money and of manuscript. The condition of 
the book-market would make it seem as if he were really con- 
ferring a favor on Mr. Telfer by doing this. But he had 
reason later to be glad that he did not act upon this impulse. 
He was looking at the wigs and photographs in the costumier’s 
window, and revolving the matter in his mind, when he caught 
the reflection of two faces in the glass, one dimly and the 
other quite indubitably familiar. Tidmarsh and — and — Oh, 
of course. Mademoiselle Jose Dubois, the little acquaintance of 
a memorable night. But he had traveled a long distance since 
that time. He was not particularly anxious to meet Mademoi- 
selle again; Tidmarsh, for reasons of his own, was not par- 
ticularly anxious to meet him. It was during office hours, 
and, while Ledgar had arranged with Jelf for an hour’s leave, 
Tidmarsh was on leave quite as French as his companion. 
Here, then, were two parties both disinclined for the encounter ; 
but it was impossible to move away without speaking. 

“Hullo, Dunstan, what are you doing up here?” asked Tid- 
marsh, awkwardly. 


26 o The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“And what are you?” retorted Dunstan. 

“Oh, I — I’m out for lunch. You remember Mademoi- 
selle Dubois?” Ledgar had good reason to remember. Ma- 
demoiselle Dubois might have been held just as responsible for 
killing Mrs. Muttleboy as the steak pie. It was a night to 
think over in a cold or hot perspiration of shame, according 
to one’s habit of body. 

“You ’aven’t been to see me, no?” said Mademoiselle, 
sweetly. “You vair’ naughty boy.” 

“No,” said Ledgar gruffly. 

“We’ve just been to Teller’s, the dramatic agents, you know. 
Jose wants to get a job at the halls.” 

“Teller’s?” said Ledgar unguardedly. “But I’ve come from 
there myself. I didn’t see you there.” 

“I suppose you’d be the literary side, though,” said Tid- 
marsh. “There’s another room where they run the theatrical 
agency. Teller’s brother, Tom Telfer, works that. James 
is the firm, though. He puts the final touches on the the- 
atrical business too. He’s great, James is; Tom isn’t a patch 
on him. Eh, Jose? James is absolutely it.” 

“I suppose he’s straight?” 

“Straight? Straight as a die, old man. I’d trust him with 
a month’s screw, and chuck him my watch into the bargain, 
if it wasn’t at Uncle’s. Come and have a wet. No? Mind 
your legs and that barrow, then, or they’ll be serving you up 
tonight somewhere in the West End with the cauliflowers. 
The great difficulty about Telfer is getting him to look at your 
stuff; he won’t look at anything. I sent him a poem once; 
neat little thing it was, about Jumpy Jack’s in the Strand — 
you know the old place — seemed to me a romantic sort of 
notion, all the poor old blighters who once got boozed there, 
and pegged out through it, haunting the pub still cadging 
drinks from other ghosts. How does it strike you, eh? Not 
bad? But what do you think James did? Sent it back by 
next post, with a polite note saying he’d tried it on the Editors 
of the Christian Recorder and the Methodist World, but 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 261 

they regretted they could not find space for it; and he did 
not know any other papers for which it would be suitable — 
unless I tried the Blue Ribbon Gazette or the War Cry off 
my own bat. Too bad. Still, it only took me a few minutes 
to knock off. I scored off James, though; sold it myself to 
the proprietor of Jumpy Jack’s for a Scotch and soda. I’ve 
a notion of getting him to make me poet laureate to his estab- 
lishment, salary to be worked off in booze. That’s how the 
real poet laureate does it; writes coronation odes and other 
piffle, not half so good as mine, what I’ve seen of it, and they 
send him a butt of wine by return. No agents.” 

“Well, I’ll have to be getting back,” said Ledgar, looking 
at his watch. 

“Righto! Give my love to them at the office; I’ll be look- 
ing in a little later . . . Oh, about Telfer. He goes to the 
Melpomene every evening; not a bad little club; that’s where 
I met him. Not a bad tip to get yourself put up for it; 
meet quite a lot of useful men ... I tried one other thing 
on James; a stump speech about the elephant; laying its eggs 
in the sand to make itself invisible and all that sort of thing, 
you know. Awfully smart. He sent me back an order of 
admission to Colney Hatch. Wait and see. I’ve got it here 
somewhere.” 

He turned out a miscellaneous assortment of tinted papers 
decorated with floral designs and sprawled over with femi- 
nine handwriting. “Not there, my child, not there . . . 
Must have a hole in my pocket. That accounts for my losing 
that quid, eh, Jose? I suppose you haven’t half a crown 
about you, Dunstan, till next pay-day. Losing that quid’s 
put me in an awful hole. Notice how I walk? Just look, 
then.” 

To the admiration of several Covent Garden costers, he 
marched up and down the pavement with the gait of a fight- 
ing cock going into action. 

“Dear me,” said Ledgar, “no, I hadn’t noticed. I should 
see a doctor about it if I were you.” 


262 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Dear boy, it’s only my trousers — or Billy Maxwell’s trous- 
ers, I should say, the fellow I dig with. I can’t get my own 
out of pawn. He says he’ll have to pop these if we don’t raise 
some oof before the week’s out, and then Lord knows what 
we’ll do with only one pair between us. It came to that once 
before; last time I stayed away with flu, you know; we’d got 
down to the only pair then. Thank heaven,” he said lugubri- 
ously, “I’ve still got my bathing drawers to fall back on, 
if the worst does come to the worst. But they don’t seem to 
go well with a top hat. So long, old man.” 

Ledgar was glad to hear so favorable an account of Telfer, 
even if the authority was only Tidmarsh; his hopes rose high. 
Telfer would not look at anything. He had evidently thought 
more of the manuscript than he chose to say. A few nights 
later, Ledgar accepted an invitation from Tidmarsh to visit 
the Melpomene. He remembered Jelf’s account of his fa- 
ther’s start in life, and thought it might be good business to 
meet his agent in social circles. The Melpomene was a dingy 
little club in a dingy little street running down to the river. 
He found himself in a room hung with pictures of stage 
characters, sporting pictures in color, and caricatures from 
popular weeklies. A gloomy old person with only two teeth 
(but these fortunately opposite) and a solitary wisp of hair 
plastered across an otherwise bald head, fluttered about bandy- 
ing crude jokes with a number of members who treated him 
with very scant ceremony. Ledgar thought at first he was a 
waiter; he found afterwards that he was in reality the pro- 
prietor, who earned his bread and butter by submitting to a 
good deal of ridicule and coarse badinage. The members 
seemed very much of the Tidmarsh type; weedy actors, seedy 
authors and journalists, a sprinkling of artists and sporting 
men. A very fat man in a large chair was laying down the 
law of copyright to some younger and slimmer man. A 
parched-up little fellow in a corner was pelting him with 
pellets of bread and paper, in competition with a small, plump, 
cherubic man who was pelting him with corks; you apparently 


The Rise of Ledger Dunstan 263 

scored a bull if you hit him in the third waistcoat button. He 
flicked aside the missiles as if he were warding off wasps. 
“Now, my dear boys, my dear boys — ” he kept expostulating; 
but did not allow his flow of didactics to be stopped. “That’s 
Parrish. He’s another agent chap,” said Tidmarsh. “You’ve 
done better by going to Telfer, though. Teller’s absolutely 
IT. He and Parrish are at daggers drawn. Parrish has tried 
all sorts of things in his time; acting, journalism, insurance 
agency; they say he was a waiter once in Cairo. He’s very 
proud of being self-made — started as a joint in a crocodile’s 
tail at Drury Lane. I can’t say he’s made himself very well, 
though. It’s a queer thing; he can’t write for nuts himself, 
and has only a smattering of education, don’t you know; but 
has done pretty well as an agent — seems to know the sort of 
thing the public like. Still, he’s not a patch on Telfer . . . 
Listen to him yarning now.” 

“You remind me of the matador, Binks; you’re losing your- 
self in your own labyrinth,” 

“What’s the matador, Parrish?” drawled a middle-aged 
man in a faded brown velveteen jacket. 

“Oh, a creature half horse and half man; lived in a laby- 
rinth underground.” 

“You’re thinking of the Minotaur, old chappie. Mixing 
him up with centaurs, too.” 

“Not a bit of it. I knew about matadors before you were 
born ; why, I went all over the labyrinth when I was at Cairo. 
Don’t try to tell me anything I don’t know about matadors! 
They’ve got his skeleton in the museum there.” 

“He’s mixing him up with the mastodon now!” 

“Who’s talking about mastodons? I know all about them. 
They were things that lived in an island ” 

“Bravo, Parrish, you’ve got it at last. Quite sure you 
aren’t thinking of Myrmidons?” 

“No, I’m thinking of matadors. They’ve got this one in 
a big eso-phagus ” 

“I think Parrish has got a little more classical learning 


264 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

into him than his sarcophagus can swallow,” suggested one 
member. 

“They’ve got the bones of the esophagus — I mean, the 
matador, in a great stone esophagus at Cairo, I tell you; and 
its young one’s buried with it. Do you think I don’t know 
what I’m talking about?” He hammered each word into the 
arm of his chair with an enormous, podgy fist. “You and 
your mastodons, Croker!” 

“Croker’s that little chap with the wart on his nose,” said 
Tidmarsh. “Does the ‘Sparklets’ column for People s Prattle. 
You see the man in a yellow wig — there, just taking a shy 
at old Parrish? That’s Wiggins. Never heard of Wiggins? 
Never heard of Wiggins? Why, he did those ‘Half-Hours 
in Hades’ for Jingler s Weekly, All London went wild over 
them when they came out. Ambrose Bardsley said they 
were the best things about hell he’d seen outside the Scarlet 
Book.'' 

“Tell us that yarn about you and the Egyptian Johnnie, 
when you were teaching languages, Parrish,” said one mem- 
ber, winking at the other. 

“Oh, that? You’re pulling my leg, now, you boys. I 
must have told you all that before.” 

“No,” “I’ve never heard it, Parrish,” “Fire away, Parrish,” 
came half a dozen voices. 

“Well, when I was giving lessons in French and Egyptian, 
a very distinguished Egyptian — we’ll call him Ahmed Pasha 
— came to London, and he couldn’t speak a word of English. 
They gave him a big banquet, and he came to me beforehand 
to write him out a speech. I had to write it — what’s the word, 
some of you? What they do in shorthand, you know. Por- 
nographically? Phonetically, that’s the word I wanted. You 
know. ‘Mi Lordz Laydiz and ' Jentellmen — ’ that sort of 
thing, I can’t spell it all out. It was to be for him to read 
when they’d finish their compliments. And after all the big- 
wigs who had met in his honor had said all the nice things 
to him, he got up and said, ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 265 

I have the honor to thank you for the rottenest dinfier Fve 
ever eaten in my life. IVe had some pretty rank times in 
Cairo, but this is about the dullest show I’ve ever struck. The 
silly old buffer in the chair made some damned stupid re- 
marks — ’ It went on like that for a quarter of an hour. I 
happened to know who were going, and he touched them right 
on the spot ; asked one how much it cost him to color his nose, 
quoted Shakespeare about the ‘fair round belly’ of another, 
and so on. Of course I’d coached him up in the action — 
bows and scrapes and smiles at appropriate points and all that 
sort of thing you know. He insulted them in the most charm- 
ing way imaginable. I had to give him his guinea back, but 
it was worth it — it was worth it.” 

“That’s a favorite tag of his,” whispered Tidmarsh. “At 
one of the house dinners he had pork, which he’s awfully fond 
of, though it always upsets him. They found him afterwards 
in a room by himself, rolling about in agony, but muttering 
to himself, ‘It was worth it; it was worth it!’ Like to be intro- 
duced to him?” 

“I don’t think so. It would perhaps be rather a mistake 
as Teller’s acting for me.” 

“Looks as if Telfer isn’t going to turn up this evening. He 
generally does. I say, the old boy’s spotted you and he’s 
beckoning.” 

Mr. Parrish received Ledgar very graciously. “Ah, dear 
boy,” he said to Tidmarsh, “I’ve been wanting you to intro- 
duce me to your friend. Another theatrical gentleman? Oh, 
literary? Remarkably brisk in our line just now, sir.” 

Ledgar was doubtful how to reply to this. Mr. Telfer had 
given quite an opposite impression. “Never known such a 
season,” continued Mr. Parrish. “Publishers simply falling 
over one another to get stuff. When I started it was the 
other way about; no difficulty abotit authors; the trouble was 
to place their work. I had half a dozen editors round my 
door this morning, as if it was Mother Hubbard’s cupboard; 
simply howling for the copy — howling for it. All I could do 


266 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

was to chuck them a few limericks and half a dozen pars. 
Novels nowadays are snapped up before they^re written. Sup- 
pose you can’t help me out of a hole? Anything you have 
by you — don’t matter what it is — now’s the time. But per- 
haps you’ve made your arrangements?” 

^‘Telfer’s running him,” said Tidmarsh, rather injudiciously. 

*‘Oh, Telfer!” Mr. Parrish sniffed. “Well, of course, I 
don’t want to take you away from him. Bit old-fashioned 
in his methods, still — you see, what you want in a literary 
agent is a man who knows good stuff when he sees it, and has 
a knowledge of men of the world as well. Look at me, now. 
I’m a self-made man. I don’t say it boastingly; I’m not 
ashamed of it. There’s the fact. Tail of a crocodile; page- 
boy at the Buckingham Club ” 

“Where Parrish had the honor of being kicked by the late 
Duke of Edinburgh for telling him his boots were too small,” 
put in a man who was standing near. 

“Quite right, sir. Super at the old Terpischore. You’ve 
heard of Bella Vomica, of course?” 

“Seems to suggest organ stops and homeopathic medicines,” 
remarked another man. 

“No, no. Shut up, Jimmy, when I’m talking to a gentle- 
man. Signora Bella Vomica, the great Italian contralto. Ever 
seen “Dinorah”? She was singing in that; and she had to get 
some goats to follow her across a bridge; but she could never 
persuade them to come over. I bought some carrots and ad- 
vised her to use them. My word, they nearly shoved her over 
into the stream! That gave me a leg up in the theatrical 
world, but my health gave way and I had to go to Cairo 
for the winter as a waiter. I’m not ashamed of it — not a bit. 
Journalism in the States after that; yachting editor to the 
Brooklyn Express, Managed a side-show at Earl’s Court; 
mirrors, cigarettes, black coffee. Eastern ladies. Then the 
agency. A varied career, sir. I flatter myself it has given 
me some knowledge of men and affairs. I’ve seen prosperous 
times, and I’ve seen rough times, but if the Phoenix-head has 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 267 

sometimes stared me in the face, I’ve always managed to rise 
Gorgon-like from my ashes. Going sir? Well, if you do have 
any stuff about you at any time you’ll be conferring a real 
favor on me and on the publishers. Good evening.” 

Ten days later, Ledgar and Jelf left London for Italy. 


CHAPTER VIII 


O N a sunny afternoon in early spring, they started from 
Victoria on the first stage of their journey. Ledgar 
was just a little apprenhensive as to how he and Jelf 
would get on together as traveling companions for a month. 
Hitherto he had not been very happy in the selection of com- 
rades on the few occasions when he did not take his holidays 
alone. People with whom he came in contact got on his 
nerves. He had discovered this at home. His father had a 
peculiar habit of clearing his throat — “trumpeting,” the chil- 
dren called it — before saying grace or prayers; it was not un- 
like the neighing of a very decrepit horse. Ledgar found this 
almost intolerable. He hated his mother to touch him or to 
kiss him, except on formal occasions such as parting for the 
night. When Uncle Ab threw the accessories of the dinner- 
table at bluebottles or wasps, it was as much as he could do 
to abstain from throwing them back again at Uncle Ab. He 
attributed this to a peculiarity of genius; Carlyle was like it; 
other eminent men were like it — not made for company or for 
home life. In a Trappist monastery he would have been in 
his element; although even there the faces of his companions 
would have bored him unutterably. Men shut up on ship- 
board for weary months, or in Polar igloos, grow sometimes 
to hate the faces of their companions. There is a little war- 
fare rhyme which describes intimately the mental attitude of 
men driven mad by monotony and brutalized by hardship and 
by bloodshed: 

That mas not his sort. 

It didnt matter 
What me mere at 
But he must chatter 
Of this and that 
268 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 269 

His little son 
Had said or done; 

Till, as he told 
The fiftieth time 
Without a change 
How three-year-old 
Prattled a rime. 

They got the range 
And cut him short. 

It is not a ruthless rime. It is a plain, matter-of-fact nar- 
rative of a quite possible incident with men for whom the 
idea of life’s sacredness has been loosened, and who are goaded 
beyond endurance point by unvarying faces and gestures, by 
unchanging repetitions of words. Most people have this ex- 
perience in their family circles and have to fight it with love. 
Ledgar unhappily found it most marked among his own people, 
those who meant well by him and whom he had most reason 
to treat with forbearance. 

“I think we’re going to have a jolly time,” he said to Jelf. 
^‘I’m afraid I’m not really a very good traveling companion, 
though. Some years ago I spent a holiday with a man tramp- 
ing down in Devonshire. He’s one of the best chaps out; 
true as steel, high spirits, very unselfish. He’d gone on walk- 
ing tours before; and he gave me no end of tips. He made 
me carry almost as much paraphernalia as a French piou piou 
in full marching order. A huge knapsack with cane behind 
and water-proof in front; a rolled overcoat; a water-bottle; a 
stout stick. I could hardly stand. He had to fix the things 
on me. I felt like the old prophet — you remember — who tpld 
his sons to saddle the ass, and they saddled him. Funny that 
the Bible even puts the ‘him’ in italics. And I was particular 
to remember to have two pairs of boots, not new, whatever I 
did; and supplies of French chalk and vaseline. When he 
arrived at the station I found him hopping about gingerly on 
his toes. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘New boots, and 


270 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

they pinch like the dickens. My other pair didn’t come back 
in time from the cobbler’s.’ I didn’t say anything. We were 
going to start walking at Bideford, stay a day or two at 
Clovelly, and then go by way of Ilfracombe to Porlock. Glori- 
ous country; and we had ripping weather from start to finish 
— not a spot of rain. And I never had such an awful time in 
my life. He’d taken so much trouble to fix me up (unselfish- 
ness, you see) that he’d overlooked himself altogether. All the 
time it was ‘Got your vaseline, Ledgar ? Let’s have a little of 
your French chalk for my feet. I wonder if your spare boots 
would fit me? You did remember to bring a clothes brush, 
didn’t you?’ When it came to a tooth brush we had nearly 
reached words. In fact, I did tell him I’d rather give him a 
shilling to buy a new one for himself. He wasn’t mean; only 
economical, and not particularly well-off. He’d mapped out 
expenses down to a penny. That worried me; I hate having 
to pull up because the exact expenditure for the day is being 
exceeded. Oh, he wanted to know what on earth he’d, do with 
two tooth brushes when he got back home. Then he’d got 
the photographic craze ; always stopping to take views, and find- 
ing that something had gone wrong with the camera. Or else 
he had left his plates behind at our last stopping-place and 
would have to go back for them. Once I thought I’d 
lost him altogether; he jumped out of a train to take a pho- 
tograph and only just managed to hop into the guard’s van 
as it was leaving the station. At night I had to lie in the 
dark while he developed his views underneath the bed. He 
whistled, too, and was always so damnably cheerful. . . . 
We had a fairly decent time at Bideford. Stayed at an 
old inn on the quay; went up to have a look at ‘Tor- 
ridge meeting Sister Taw,’ and read ‘Westward Ho!’; saw 
a very amateur performance of ‘Box and Cox’ in aid of a 
church charity. At Clovelly we didn’t have much to say 
to one another; apart from whistling, he spent most of his 
time in talking (quite cheerfully) about his feet. And at 
Ilfracombe, I let him go on the rest of his way by himself. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 271 

while I put in the remainder of my leave at a boarding- 
house.’^ 

“Doesn’t sound very inviting,” said Jelf. “I’m afraid you 
must be rather a difficult person to get on with, though, Led- 
gar. Thanks for warning me. I don’t take photographs, and 
I’ll promise not to borrow your tooth brush. My boots, as a 
matter of fact, are two sizes too large — though I’m afraid 
that’s almost a worse fault. Still, I have another pair — and 
vaseline. I regret to say I’m generally cheerful. But then I 
don’t take photographs. You’ll have to be as miserable as 
possible in the circumstances.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean you. We’ll hit it all right. In fact, 
you’re about the only man I should have cared to take a holi- 
day with, after that experience, and with my temperament.” 

“Thanks. Have a cigarette?” 

Paris was glittering with lights when they reached it. They 
drank red wine, dined, and sipped coffee at a small cafe — 
crowded with uniforms — near the Gare. “Sorry you’ve no 
time for the Morgue,” said Maurice. “Have you ever been 
to the Sainte Chapelle? I think that’s almost the most won- 
derful sight in Paris ... I was over for a few days during 
the Exhibition. Do you remember the topsy-turvy house? It 
struck me as an extraordinary allegory of life. Instead of 
dolls’ houses, children ought to be given toy houses upside 
down, and taught the meaning of them. It’s the first lesson 
one has to learn. You’re given a house that is not only in- 
cipiently dirty (incipiently is the only word I can think of to 
hit off what I mean) but all the wrong way up. You have 
to take the chairs and tables off the ceiling, and put them on 
the floor; the chandelier from the floor and fix it on the ceiling; 
carpet the ceiling and whitewash the floor; and turn the pic- 
tures upside down. Then you can live comfortably. People 
make a mess of their lives because they think the houses are 
the right way up; or ought to be given them the right way 
up ; so they try to walk on the ceilings. Then they tumble off, 
and hurt themselves and other people who have turned the 


272 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ceilings into floors. It sounds a bit mixed, but then the house 
itself is mixed. The beauty of an upside-down dolls’ house 
IS that it could be given to any child, English or Hottentot 
or Chinese; Christian or Moslem or Buddhist. It’s universal 
truth. Not a child born into the world but is upside down 
at the start, and has to be converted — not necessarily to Chris- 
tianity.” 

“I’m almost sorry you were not my father, Maurice. You 
don’t happen to be Belinda Brookes, do you?” 

“Not to my knowledge. Who’s she?” 

“A lady who wears trousers, and writes on — what was it? 
ferox, gillaroo, and the management of children. I haven’t 
the faintest idea what ferox and gillaroo are, unless a particu- 
lar breed of child.” 

“I rather fancy a particular breed of salmon ... I think 
honestly I’d have made a very interesting father. It’s extraor- 
dinary how little is really done in the way of educational toys. 
People are getting wiser ; I see ants’ nests under glass are being 
advertised. Why not have glorified Noah’s Arks dealing with 
different periods of Biblical history? And secular history for 
that matter? A box, for instance, like the Tabernacle, with 
Moses and Aaron, and the sacred vessels, and the scapegoat and 
serpents. Another to illustrate the story of Joseph; another 
for David, and so forth. It may have been done; but at all 
events Noah seems the only popular person. Then why not 
the story of Rome, with Julius and the other Caesars, the geese, 
Romulus and Remus (I nearly said Romeo and Juliet) and the 
wolf that suckled them? Or Henry the Eighth with his six 
wives? Or Good Queen Bess and her gallants of the spacious 
days ?” 

“There ought to be a fortune in it,” said Ledgar. “How 
I should have reveled in the French Revolution with a work- 
ing-model of the guillotine, and heads that really came off, 
when I was a kid.” 

“I was reading a life of Fouquier-Tinville the other day. 
He seems to me the worst of all that crowd, except perhaps 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 273 

Marat. A man absolutely heartless; cold and ruthless as 
the guillotine itself. Strange to think that not a hundred 
years ago these very streets were seething with that mob, and 
tumultuous with their shouting. I don’t know any capital 
except Rome that has a history so fascinating, from the time 
when the first kings rolled through in their ox-drawn chariots. 
Of course, Napoleon towers over everything now . . . We’ll 
have to make a bolt for the train.” 

When they had taken their seats, and the train had been 
squeaked into motion, Ledgar returned to the subject of Jelf’s 
educational methods. He had sundry other ideas which he 
expounded. On the wall of every nursery should be texts 
not only from the Bible, but from other sacred writings and 
from Shakespeare. Also, of course, 

YOU ARE UPSIDE DOWN 
EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD IS UPSIDE DOWN 
LEARN TO STAND ON YOUR HEAD 

Nothing, above all, about there being only a step between 
one and death; nothing about judgments and cursings and 
Hell. By the selection of texts, children should learn that 
the Bible was one great Book among many; primus inter 
pares; that it was not the sole repository of truth. “It is diffi- 
cult to exaggerate the importance of the Bible,” Jelf said, 
“but if it were a prohibited book for six months or a year, 
I think it is quite possible the world would be the gainer. 
Better still, if it were re-written. I sketched out once by 
way of rather audacious amusement a re-revised Bible, begin- 
ning with the Book of Vaccinations, and including — I forget 
them all — the Book of Generations, which explained to chil- 
dren the facts of their own bodies, tbe Book of Pedagogics, 
the Book of Pneumatics, and the Songs of Psyche — ^which were, 
of course, my Psalms. It’s some time ago, when I was suffi- 
ciently young and irreverent to make such an experiment; but 
it began more or less as follows: 

“Book of Generations, Verse i. In the beginning God 


274 The Rise of Led gar Uunstan 

created two children, and placed them in a garden to work 
and play. 

“Verse 2. And He said unto them, “Choose ye this day 
whether ye will shut your eyes and open your mouths, and see 
what I will give you; or whether ye will open your eyes and 
help yourselves.” 

“Verse 3. And one child shut his eyes and opened his mouth ; 
and it was counted unto him for faith and righteousness; and 
his mouth was filled with good things. 

“Verse 4. But the other child opened his eyes to see why he 
was told to shut them; and helped himself; and he was num- 
bered among the transgressors. 

“You see, my idea is that the Bible has become so familiar 
that it has lost not a little of its influence; the natural child 
is prejudiced against a book which is always being extolled 
as the Book of Books; it is full of inconsistencies and diffi- 
culties which higher criticism has not yet explained away; and 
parts of the Old Testament, especially, are simply barbaric . . . 
There, my boots are all right and I don’t want your tooth 
brush; but here’s my chief fault on the surface. Religion 
and art are my ‘shops,’ and I can’t help talking them. You 
can retaliate by telling me what your barber said; or by ex- 
plaining how Dick escaped from cannibals by falling into a 
concealed treasure cave when lightning struck the tripod of 
the stew-pot . . . There, that idea ought to be worth thirty 
bob to you at the very least. Isn’t it ripping to be spinning 
through a city like Paris at night? Now, Ledgar, I’ll set you 
a holiday task to do while I, get a little sleep. Knock out some 
lines on our night journey through Paris.” 

“Don’t think I’m capable of making much of it. Still, I’ll 
have a shot.” A quarter of an hour later he presented his 
scribbled verse: 

'Roar and rattle of wheels. 

Rattle and roar in the night. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 275 

Past us the clusters of light. 

Past us the houses take flight. 

Palaces, churches, at heels 
Fast as the swift-circling wheels 
Through Paris at night. 

Rattle and roar in the night. 

Roar and rattle of wheels. 

By us the dim river steals. 

Hiding the Norseman s lost keels. 

Hiding old love-tales from sight. 

Fast go the fast-spinning wheels. 

Through Paris at night. 

Roar and rattle of wheels. 

Rattle and roar in the night. 

Boulevards left, and on right 
Couched 'neath the Abbey s dim height. 

Quays where the book-vender deals; 

So speed the swift-running wheels. 

Through Paris, at night. 

Rattle and roar in the night. 

Roar and rattle of wheels. 

Past us the old city reels. 

Corners and crannies reveals. 

Of olden-time foray and fight. 

Long ere the swift-circling wheels 
Leave Paris, at night. 

“Passable,’’ said Jelf. “Fair in the circumstances. I’ll 
scribble you an envoi. . . . Here you are: — 

Prince, 0 er the roar in the night. 

Rattle and roar of the wheels, 

I think of the last of my meals. 


276 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

And you, also, know how it feels 
When the glow o'er your diaphragm steals 
Which is just on the frontier of * tight,' 

When you tingle all down to your heels. 

And rattle and rumble all night, 

“Extremely vulgar,” said Ledgar, handing it back. “Close 
your watertight compartment, and go to sleep again.” 

Breakfast in Switzerland; red honey with their rolls and 
coffee, and chamois heads in the salle d manger. A dive into 
a dark tunnel, and out again in glorious sunshine. At the first 
Italian station Jelf stretched himself and took deep breaths of 
air like wine. 


**Open my heart and you will see 
Graved inside of it, Italy, 

Such lovers old are I and she. 

So it always was, so shall ever be,** 

he declaimed. “An Englishman’s second Fatherland? I think 
it’s my first. I always feel that I’ve come home, in Italy. 
Dim recollection of preexistence, perhaps. Oh, it’s good to be 
alive in air like this!” 

Through a fertile plain, among poplars and mulberries, they 
came at last to Milan. Two days here, to see the Duomo, 
the castle, and the distant Alps; then an afternoon train which 
should have brought them by bedtime into Venice. But here 
Jelf’s Italian was at fault. They dawdled on in leisurely 
fashion through the hot hours ; halting for unconscionable times 
at country stations where crowds of peasants entered or left 
the train. An old man in their compartment, with a face 
like some clear-cut walnut carving, played a mouth-organ; a 
younger man sang provincial songs dating from the Renais- 
sance. At one station a priest entered; a fat old man, with 
a heavy face like the face of an* aged horse; when Jelf spoke, 
it lightened into sudden animation and attractiveness. Ledgar 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 277 

tried him with a few words of Latin. *'Sacerdosf* An obvi- 
ous question with an obvious reply, accompanied by a smile. 
''Sacherdos/' He gave the Latin the Italian pronunciation. 
A round-faced, round-eyed, brisk man of middle age looked 
at the priest askance. He was communicative, as all Italians 
are with English tourists. When the priest had left the car- 
riage, he gave Ledgar to understand that for his part he had 
no dealings with the Catholic party. He did not believe in 
the Church; did not believe in God; did not see the necessity 
for God. His explanation, quite easily to be understood, was 
carried on for the most part in dumb show. **Oculi, oculi,** 
he kept repeating, pointing to his eyes and to the surrounding 
country. What he could see with his eyes — that he believed 
in. *'Naturaf" He took off his hat to "*Naturaf* The King? 
Ah; he took off his hat to the King. The Pope? A gesture 
of disgust and disavowal ... Jelf enjoyed every moment of 
the journey; he was on native soil. He chatted to some, 
sketched others when they gave him the opportunity by sleep- 
ing, and helped garrulous, mahogany-faced old women with 
cumbrous impedimenta in and out. Ledgar soon exhausted 
his Italian and his Latin. He watched for a time the pass- 
ing country; fields of maize, olive woods with violets under- 
neath the twisted trees, white villas and cottages, trim gardens 
set with ilex and cypress. Then, bored by the monotony of 
the journey, he went to sleep. 

The train crawled on and on through sunshine into dusk 
and violet night. “Verona!” Jelf, on Italian soil, would 
have crept on through the country and the ages for a week 
without inquiry. What did it matter when they reached 
Venice? They were in the most delightful land, among the 
most delightful people. But Ledgar wanted a wash and his 
bed. They had entered a slow train by mistake at Milan; 
it went no farther than Verona. The later fast train which 
they should have taken would arrive at Verona about three 
o’clock; there were several hours to wait. After wandering 
for some time about railway lines in the darkness, in a vain 


278 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

effort (at first) to leave the environs of the station, they found 
themselves in an immensely broad, rigidly straight street 
flanked by w^hite houses ; at this hour no one ^vas about. They 
passed under a great archway where cloaked men kept guard. 
And then, in the moonlight, they came suddenly upon the 
amphitheater — perfectly preserved. 

How true to life and fact' are the transformation scenes 
of fiction? A clerk in “The Greatest Story in the World” 
finds himself a galley slave. A visitor to a country house, in 
“The Old Country,” discovers suddenly that the outer husk 
or shell of things has fallen like a curtain, revealing, beneath 
the characters, the home-life, the interests of folk living in 
the house when Plantagenets were on the throne. Does time 
progress? Is it stationary? Are the centuries and the gen- 
erations merely an illusion? Could some veil fall or be 
broken, as a mist may break giving a vista of hitherto hidden 
country, buildings, people — ^would there be revealed ancient 
times, not gone by, not finished and done with, but still con- 
tinuing simultaneously with the present ? It seemed so to them 
that night. “Honor the tourist; he walks in a halo of ro- 
mance.” At any moment some filmy cloud of night, conceal- 
ing vision, might break, some rift open in the silver sheen 
of moonlight, and old Verona in its many ages stands before 
them; the two gentlemen conversing; dim cavalcades and pro- 
cessions re-form under their banners and their crosses; beasts 
and men stream again with shout and tumult into the arena. 
“It seems as if something’s going to happen,” said Jelf, al- 
most in a whisper. “Doesn’t it to you? As if some faint 
picture were on the screen, which in a moment may fade 
and change into another, brighter, warm with life and 
color ?” 

But Verona kept her secrets. 

Behind the amphitheater they found a small trattoria, 
clouded with smoke and filled with soldiers. At three o’clock 
the train sped on with them again to Venice. Gray water, 
lights at last breaking the monotony of the darkness — and then 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 279 

the waterways of the city just waking beneath the rising 
sun. 

What luck! To enter Venice at dawn; to see the first 
gondolas steal from the side canals, the first boatload of 
colored fruits emerge from dark and mysterious channels, the 
first hucksters setting up their stalls near the Rialto. And the 
water, blood-red under the sun, was at their feet at the exit 
from the station. Already, the early steamboats churned their 
way up and down the Grand Canal. “Look at those palaces. 
That’s Browning’s — and that — and that — ” Jelf was a Baede- 
ker on legs; more accurate than an American lady whom 
Ledgar had encountered on the Rhine, who, by a slight error 
in her starting-point, contrived to pin a wrong legend to every 
castle on the river . . . They stayed at a hotel near St. 
Mark’s, sleeping under mosquito nets in vast rooms with mar- 
ble floors, and waited on by a chambermaid with Titian red 
hair. Young as he still was, ten years seemed to have skipped 
from Jelf’s shoulders, taking him back again into boyhood. 
Every morning he was out an hour before Ledgar rose from 
his bed, buying fruit from the laden boats or booths, sketching 
odd corners and quaint craft, exploring corners of the city 
hitherto unknown to him. He came back with the face of 
a girl made Queen of the May, a boy Daphnephoros. Italian 
air was fresh breath to his lungs, its color new blood coursing 
through his veins. He touched the soil ; a year of London was 
sloughed off. 

“I wonder you don’t live altogether in Italy,” Ledgar said 
to him one evening as they were sipping their coffee outside 
Florian’s. 

“And give up the office?” 

“Well, why not? Of course I should be sorry for my 
own sake if you did; unless I had luck enough with my book 
to come out with you. Because you’ve put fresh color into 
my life; it has been different since I came to know you. Be- 
fore, the world was only cruel; I saw nothing before me; just 
a drift, on and down, like the lives of so many of the men 


28 o The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

at the office — only infinitely worse for me, because they seem 
to tread their round with the apathy of Carisbrooke donkeys; 
to me it was torture. Ten to half-past four, ten to half-past 
four; wash your hands, go home, go to bed; ten to half-past 
four again. A treadmill that hundreds of thousands move 
round and round in London without knowing that they are in 
prison on a treadmill at all; I always did know. What was 
the end going to be?’* 

**Giu per lo mondo senza fino amarof* quoted Jelf under 
his breath. 

“Down through a world of infinite bitterness. Well?” 

“Well, you’ve shown me there’s interest and beauty as well 
as heartless cruelty. It has been like our journey into Milan ; 
the glacial coldness, the rugged, jagged savagery of mountain 
ranges — majestic, perhaps, but harsh, terrible in their isolation; 
the darkness of the tunnel — then umbrageous valleys, softly 
rounded hills, clear air, spring sunshine.” 

“And violets underneath the olives. Don’t forget the vio- 
lets; promise of summer, of coming flowers, of the full glory 
of sunshine.” 

“Yes — only, of course, beyond that, if we strike deep into 
the metaphor — beyond the rich, warm, happy land, cruelty 
again; the sea. You know what Byron says of life? ‘The 
greatest error a man can commit is to think too seriously of 
the business of human life. The whole is a cheat — a brilliant 
deception. To fill up a few hours with business, to smile and 
sigh half a dozen times, and round off the whole with a slum- 
ber — is there anything more than this?’” 

“It seems to me, then, that you do think too seriously of it. 
Byron rounds off the whole with a slumber ; you, with a night- 
mare. But you asked why I do not live in Italy?” 

“Yes. Living is very cheap here, I believe. I suppose your 
private means would make it possible?” 

“I daresay. In fact. I’ve thought of it; fortunately without 
letting the thought and the wish master me. My dear Led- 
gar, a life like that would ruin me in a year. I’m not a 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 281 

genius, as possibly you may be; you give out flashes; this book 
of yours may be the halfway house between something at- 
tempted and something done. Now I could do nothing big. 
Small things I do; small essays, small poems, small paintings. 
But I have a temperament; and I have just that spark, I think, 
of the divine fire that is so essentially dangerous a possession. 
Unless guarded and screened, it may go out; it may set every- 
thing in flames. The half-genius is really a most dangerous 
person. Set loose for six months, I should become a menace 
to society. You don’t believe me. It’s true. Wait and see 
what I’m like after two weeks in Italy. The warmth, the 
color, the movement, the sunshine, the flowers, the girls, the 
ragazzi, with that glorious Titian hair, sloe-black dancing 
eyes, brown eyes soft as the eyes of deer — the music, the lan- 
guage — you know what they say about Italians? That in 
Eden God commanded in Spanish, Adam excused himself in 
French, but Italian was the language of the tempter? — the 
sensuous, languorous life against a background eternally old 
and picturesque — it goes to my head like wine. I do not 
pretend to know myself; yet I know myself a little. I can 
bear a month; not more . . . We haven’t often spoken of 
that kind of thing, or of our own real inner lives. No. I’ve 
fought it all out with myself. Free, unrestricted life would 
break down the walls of that compartment in which I brick up 
the flesh as naughty nuns were bricked up in their convents. 
Too much life intoxicates me ; all this dead past with its memo- 
ries intoxicates me; you know how ancient kings drank mum- 
mia as ‘panders to their bed’ . . . Well, the secret’s out. I 
don’t like the oflice; I don’t hate it. It’s medicinal, growing 
endurable as cod liver oil grows endurable. I do my bit; it’s 
my insurance premium against disaster.” 

“I wonder — I’ve often wondered — ^why you have never 
married.” 

Jelf did not reply for a few minutes. Soft purple night 
had fallen and closed upon them; like fireflies, the light flitted 
with the gondolas on the dark water. What secrets lay be- 


282 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

neath them? Near by, at the mooring place, glowed a great 
lantern of dull red; and the sound of laughter, of music, of 
song flowed towards them with the ripple of the wavelets. 
From here doges of old years had started to wed Venice to 
the sea. Near here, the dazzling, noisy pageants of carnival 
had broken the secular darkness. And, with muffled oars, 
through the night crept the black gondola to the palaces of 
its unwarned and sleeping victims, whose bones now lay in 
the rotting debris of the centuries. 

“I have been married, old chap,” Jelf said at last, in a low 
voice. “And we spent our honeymoon here — in Venice.” 

Ledgar wondered that he could come again to the place; 
enjoy it as he did; but said nothing. And by and by Maurice 
continued. 

“It was later in the year than this. We had been married 
a fortnight; I knew her when we were children; we were 
little sweethearts then. We went one afternoon to the Lido. 
We used to bathe there sometimes. It was scorchingly hot, 
and she went in; she was just beginning to swim. I was a 
little o£E-color that afternoon, so I watched her from the sands. 
I could not speak much Italian then. I was trying to beat 
down one of those fellows who sell sea-horses and shells on 
the sands, when a child ran up to me and pointed. I had only 
taken my eyes off her for a moment, but she was in difficulties ; 
I think an unexpected wave had taken away her breath. Of 
course I waded in at once and shouted out, ‘Keep your head 
and don’t struggle; just lie quiet and move your hands a little. 
I’m coming, Grace.’ But another wave was before me, and 
she went under.” 

“Drowned?” gasped Ledgar. 

Jelf nodded. “It smashed me up a bit, I can tell you. You 
see, we’d always been fond of one another, and we’d got our 
little house ready and all that.” 

“Awful,” said Ledgar. “I think — I think I should have 
shot myself. And yet you are able to come back here, and 
enjoy it as you do.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 283 

“Why not? I suffered a bit, I can tell you; the worst was 
coming back to the empty, furnished house. Because there 
was a pair of gloves lying where she left them just before 
we came away, and a patch of cigar ash I dropped on the 
drawing-room carpet; we laughed because she called me over 
the coals about it. But — Fm not callous; I suppose you may 
call it philosophical, if you like. When I could think at all — 
I was stunned at first, and then came agony too great for 
thought — it seemed to me somehow like this: ‘Well, we had 
our romance; we loved one another; we had no end of fun 
getting our house furnished; we had the j oiliest time in Venice. 
That’s all to the good. And she’s not really gone altogether. 
She’s there, at the back of all I see; and some day we’ll have 
our home together, and our jolly times, all the same.’ You 
know, a clean wound may hurt very badly, and the scar’s 
always there to remind you; but it heals cleanly. The deuce 
of it is when there’s dirt in a wound. When I think about 
it now, do you know the first thing I remember? By the way, 
do you know that picture of a Viking’s passing — the body in 
his galley drifting seawards, with the flames shrouding him? 
I brought her back that afternoon from the Lido to Venice, in 
one of those fishing boats, from Murano, I think it was, with 
the great scarlet sails. It was a perfect afternoon, only a ripple 
on the lagoon, which lay here opal, here gold, here red under 
the setting sun. Somehow I scarcely think at all of those 
awful minutes when I was wading through the sea towards 
her. I’m really not callous. When I came back to Venice for 
the first time afterwards, I missed her awfully — awfully. But 
now I like to think about it all. In that glass place this after- 
noon, I thought, ‘We bought a wine-glass here, the first 
evening.’ In the antique shop, ‘This is where she made the 
man take three lire off the price of the dagger!’ . . . Finished 
your coffee? Then let’s go to church.” 

They went, not to St. Mark’s, but to a smaller church fac- 
ing on to a dark little canal in the recesses of the city. Open- 
ing the leather-covered door, they found a packed congrega- 


284 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

tion; incense; altar ablaze with light. Ledgar and Jelf took 
their places among a crowd of men and lads who — unable to 
find seats — stood near the door. They made room for the 
new-comers, and a man, crossing himself at the door, passed 
the holy water to Jelf s hand. Jelf crossed himself; Ledgar 
noticed later that he knelt with the others. . . . “How glori- 
ous the music is !’* he said when they came again into the open. 
“And the Latin words are music in themselves. 'Serva nos, 
Domine, vigilantes, custodi nos dormientes; ut vigilemus cum 
Christo, et requiescamus in pace.* ** He went over passage 
after sonorous passage from Vespers and Compline as they 
walked back to their hotel. 

“I wonder that you, a Baptist, should cross yourself and 
kneel, Maurice,” said Ledgar. 

“Why not? When in Venice . . . Isn’t the Catholic God 
the Baptist God, then? To make the sign on my body does 
no harm to them or me. I love these Italian common people. 
They are grown-up children, one and all of them; not very 
trustworthy, no sense of responsibility, helpless if left to them- 
selves. Fearful liars; but they lie like children, if they are 
frightened, or because they think some totally imaginary tale 
may please you. They have here just the religion they need. 
I admit I haven’t yet reached the point of spitting on the floor.” 

“I don’t think the Baptist God is the Catholic God,” said 
Ledgar. “The Catholic God likes incense, candles, genuflex- 
ions; the Baptist God thinks these an abomination. The Cath- 
olic God is present bodily in the Sacrament; the Baptist God 
thinks this little short of cannibalism. The Catholic God has 
a Mother who rules as Queen of Heaven; the Baptist God’s 
Mother was just a humble village maiden, not to rule or to 
be worshiped — almost to be forgotten in the services of His 
Church. The Catholic God likes popes, priests, confessionals, 
indulgences; the Baptist God will have no Mediator between 
Himself and man, save Christ. Then are there two Gods? 
Or many Gods? A God who likes phylacteries, unleavened 
bread, and detests ham; a God who likes praying carpets and 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 285 

another who likes praying wheels? ... You may be right. 
The Italians treat their animals abominably; Newman said, 
‘You know, my brethren, we have no duties towards the brute 
creation; there is no relation of justice between them and us.’ 
But in the Zend A vesta there is a prayer for forgiveness for 
sins committed against the creatures of God, dogs, birds, ‘any 
kind of animal . . . any creature of the field ... if I have 
beaten it, tortured it, slain it wrongfully, not given it fodder 
at the right time’ . . . Perhaps there is one God, setting dif- 
ferent laws before different men at different ages.” 

“Is cruelty a matter only of time and place?” 

“I don’t say that. I do say that the Creator cares far less 
about externals than people think . . . Well, here we arc. 
We’ll be up early tomorrow, and have a long day at San 
Lazzaro. Good night, old chap. Noctem quietam, et finem 
perfectum concedat nobis Dominus omnipotens.^* 


CHAPTER IX 


W HEN they reached Florence, their next stopping 
place, a budget of letters from England was waiting 
for them at the post office. Ledgar opened a type- 
written envelope; “Hullo,” he said, “here’s something from 
Telfer, Maurice, about the book!” He read the letter through 
in great excitement. Too early yet, surely, for an acceptance? 
“Well, what’s the news, Ledgar? Not taken?” 

“No, but not rejected. He hasn’t sent me an order for 
admission to Colney Hatch; and he hasn’t tried it in vain on 
the Editor of the War Cry. Read what he says.” 

“Dear Sir, — How the deuce you can have the"' imperti- 
nence” (I say, this is a pretty stiff beginning!) “to call a novel 
‘Wind Hill,’ when you lay the scene in an actual street of 
that name, in a hamlet only thinly disguised, I cannot imagine. 
You will certainly have to alter the title. On second thoughts, 
also, I think your yellow nose won’t wash. Your Major is the 
stiff est figure I’ve come across outside a cam clot’s tray in the 
Strand. You’ll have to make him move less jerkily. You’ve 
caught the atmosphere you want very well. I like several of 
your characters immensely, and have fallen in love particularly 
with three old ladies. My heart goes out especially towards 
the one who takes to pieces at night. But why so many freaks? 
Also, why so much of the Major’s language? Also, is not Miss 
Sycamore a leetle too much like Betsy Trotwood plus Miss 
Haversham? There is sometimes a note which might be pos- 
sibly more decorous. Vulgarity’s all very well within the walls 
of the Melpomene. Take a hint from ‘Cranford.’ Even an 
expected baby, if you remember, was only alluded to as a 
circumstance. You have a very pretty pen where scenery is 
concerned ; the picnic to the ruined Abbey on the shore, and the 
sea-scapes, are excellent. Altogether, I consider the book a 
good piece of work. I’m sending it to you under registered 
cover for these alterations, as it is as well to start it off on 
its journeys as soon as possible if it’s to be in time for next 

286 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 287 

season. Of course, owing to the appalling state of affairs in the 
book-world you will not be disappointed if your book does not 
find a publisher; but I’ll get to work on it at once, when I 
receive the revised manuscript. 

“Yours faithfully, 

“James Telfer.” 

“That’s a pretty good letter, coming from Telfer, eh, 
Maurice? He wouldn’t write like that if he didn’t think 
something of it. I don’t know that I agree with all his sug- 
gestions, but I suppose I’ll have to fall in with them. I’ll get 
to work on it at once.” 

“Good-by to sight-seeing in Florence for a day or two then,” 
said Jelf with a smile. “I’m going out now. You must not 
stay in all the day, you know. I’ll meet you on the Rialto at 
twelve o’clock.” 

Ledgar spent the morning at Came Bay; the afternoon in 
Florence. The letter had sent his spirits, a little depressed 
in Venice by the story of Jelf’s loss, up to blood-heat. The 
obsession of a cruel, pitiless, mechanical God had returned for 
a time under the thought of the seemingly ruthless cruelty that 
could place two children together, make them grow up and 
love, encourage them to marry and build up a home, send 
them on honeymoon, and then, at the height of their happiness, 
among glorious surroundings on a sunny afternoon, fling one 
of them blind, speechless, deaf, motionless — dead — at the other’s 
feet, to be taken home again and buried. It was all very well 
for Jelf to speak of meeting her again. How did he know? 
Every stone of Venice spoke of death and of dead love; no 
city in the world holds within its walls more discernibly than 
Venice the brooding memory of death. The crumbling pal- 
aces, the worn marbles of churches and piazzas, the mists from 
the sea invading its streets, the dark waters covering — ^who 
knows what?— all speak of death, yet give no whisper of a 
day when its ghosts shall walk again incarnate in sun and 
air. 

Ledgar — not steeped in the Renaissance life as Jelf was — 


288 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

found Florence intensely interesting, but it made less appeal 
to him than Venice. Every hour in the City of the Adriatic 
was a delight. He recalled with amusement the verdict passed 
by the surveyor at his office — a man whose interests centered 
round bricks, mortar, drain-pipes, slates, and rough-cast — after 
a few days* visit. “Shockingly out of repair, and wants drain- 
ing.” He would have constructed residential flats and Park 
Lane mansions on the Grand Canal ; edged the side canals with 
stucco villas; replaced St. Mark’s with a nineteenth-century 
tabernacle; set up another Buckingham Palace on the site of 
the old Palace of the Doges. Jelf had asked him whether it 
was he who, at the meeting of a suburban vestry when a sug- 
gestion was made that a gondola should be placed in one 
of the local parks, had proposed that two should be purchased 
in order that they might breed. 

Jelf knew Florence well, and contrived to interest his com- 
panion in some of its palaces and pictures. Anything that 
seemed picturesque appealed to Ledgar, even the picturesque 
in nomenclature ; the revolt of the Wooden Shoes, for instance, 
at once called for explanation. The ringing of the bells once 
more in his imagination thronged the streets as of old with 
armed citizens. Small things appealed to him; he took little 
interest in the proportions of a building, the composition of 
a picture. “Yes; very fine; come on, Maurice — you’ve been 
staring at that one picture for a quarter of an hour. Fve 
timed you.” He was amused to hear of the curious ceremony 
at St. Maria Novella, where switches are sold for the “whip- 
ping of Judas”; each member of the congregation turning at 
a certain verse of the Psalms to chastise his neighbor. The 
great Florentines were little more than names to him; to 
Jelf, with wider knowledge of their works and lives, they 
were still real and living men. He saw only — and liked to see 
— throngs of pale, yet colored, ghosts; Dante, Michelangelo, 
Andrea del Sarto, Raphael, Guicciardini, Boccaccio; liked to 
know that great artists, great writers, great statesmen, had 
worn the stones. He was more interested, through Merejkow- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 289 

ski’s influence, in Leonardo da Vinci . . . But when he came 
across, in an obscure church, a niche containing the mummified 
remains of a fifteenth-century prelate, a tiny old man with long 
white beard, small red slippers on his feet — the features per- 
fect — he found this of infinitely greater interest. The others 
had no doubt lived; they were vanished, only to be recon- 
structed by the imagination. But this man had survived the 
wrack of centuries; here he was, tangible, form and flesh and 
very clothes still there — imagination could be helped by and 
built upon, the visible and actual fact. “Think, Maurice, this 
old bishop did once walk these streets. He had his Palace; 
he dined and drank like your Blougram, and excused himself; 
people knelt to him. He knew great princes.’^ 

“Oh, come along, Ledgar. You’re so appallingly materi- 
alistic still. If I have not your imagination, at least I do 
not need to call this handful of petrified dust to aid it. You 
can see scores like him in the Capuchin crypts. That’s 
not the man; it’s the cast-off case of the man. Tell me, 
if you can, what was once inside him, and then you’ll 
interest me and I’ll listen. That’s what matters. One 
man has a husk of a bearded and crenulated oyster shell; 
there’s a pearl inside. Another is mother-of-pearl, and holds 
Thames mud. You were telling me the other day that one 
of your great difficulties was the existence of human monstrosi- 
ties; dwarfs, Siamese twins. When Tom Thumb went to 
Madame Tussaud’s to be modeled, he drew himself up and 
quoted ‘The mind’s the measure of the man.’ Your love 
of the gruesome, the morbid, the horrible is appalling. It’s 
frightfully dangerous. I should really try to supersede it by 
something happier and brighter.” 

“Look here, Maurice, if you lecture me we shall quarrel. 
We don’t want to do that. I see nothing very appalling in 
my interest in an actual figure, once living in old Florence, 
who has survived so much and is here visibly before us; the 
actual being who lived, and loved, and died, and had priests 
about his death-bed.” 


290 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“But he’s not the actual man; he’s not the actual man. 
Those red shoes are just as much the man as that is, and quite 
as important. I foresee that you will end a Catholic, Ledgar, 
if only because no other church in Christendom makes such 
an appeal to the morbid. It makes a sideshow of death. Does 
not that sort of thing in the least repel you? It does me. 
With its amazing history, its astounding organization, this con- 
tinual morbid dwelling on the fact of death seems to me a 
great pity and a great weakness. Bones and relics of saints; 
mummified bodies; Masses for the dead ” 

“Yes, we make less of it, but for all that a funeral in Non- 
conformist circles is a great event. Black clothes, black horses, 
black plumes (at least they had them at Came Bay), inverted 
torches on the cemetery gates, black-edged mourning cards, 
black-edged note-paper ” 

“All a pity,” said Jelf. “I knew a man who, as a pro- 
test, wore a red rose and white gloves at his wife’s funeral. 
He sorrowed for his wife, but he considered his loss so im- 
measurably her gain. The Nonconformists do not perpetuate 
the idea of death, however, as the Catholics do. They do not 
turn their chapels into charnel houses.” 

“Perhaps not. But in no matter what form you find this 
Christian faith, it seems to fashion for itself absurdities; the 
Catholics are no worse than our own people. Take that dis- 
gusting business of kissing relics or floors and steps of churches 
— rich and poor, hale and sick, alike pressing their lips to the 
same spot. Or pilgrims crawling on hands and knees up- 
stairs. Just before I met you in town on the day we started, 
I saw a crowd of young men rushing like maniacs along a 
railway platform. They were shrieking out, ‘The Lord be 
with you till we meet again.’ I looked for their victim; a 
pale young man in a compartment, evidently going on some 
mission. Nonconformist of course; probably Baptist. Porters 
and passengers were grinning. It is an astounding hymn, very 
popular at these send-offs. In a glorious medley of metaphor, 
it desires to see the person indicated under a banner in a 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 291 

sheepfold, eating manna with loving arms around him and 
wings over him, while another or other or possibly the same 
arms smite in front of him death’s threatening wave. There 
is not much to choose between the Baptists and the Catholics.” 

“Perhaps not. I am inclined to agree with Telfer, how- 
ever, about your liking for freaks. In the Middle Ages you 
would certainly have kept your dwarf or your abortion. How 
would Corcado’s dwarf-man from China, which he sold to 
the Duchess of Verona, have suited you? He was in the shape 
of a hoop, heels and head meeting, yet could think and talk. 
Or the creatures grown in jars and vases when babies, and 
retaining the shapes in later life. How would you have liked 
to be duke of Venice, of Florence, or of Verona, Ledgar, and 
able to gratify these whims?” 

“Admirably. Better still, I think, a prince-bishop. The 
Prince-Bishops of Bamberg had marble stalls for their horses, 
and fanfares of silver trumpets ushered them to their meals.” 

“It is rather a pity that so many of these tiny States were 
swept away. In Rome what struck me as most picturesque — 
pathetic too, in its way — was the last vestige of temporal 
state and power which the Papacy’s dead hand still clutches. 
Guards, marshals, major-domos, and chamberlains; the Vati- 
can, a petty court and sovereignty ... You know we were 
speaking some time back about Tolstoi’s prophecy; nine years 
during which Anti-Christ would be revealed and known; then 
another figure, re-organizing, re-constructing, building up. I 
read into that the Second Coming. Has it ever occurred to you 
in what manner Christ is likely to come again?” 

“I don’t think I have ever given the matter a thought.” 

“Well, I think myself, not in the clouds — not in some super- 
natural form, but as he came before, born of woman. He 
will grow up a child among children, a man among men. At 
first, and perhaps even later, he will not be recognized as the 
Christ. Yet, once again, God incarnate will indeed dwell 
among men, not as an example merely, but as a great con- 
structor, a great organizer, who during his life will draw 


292 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

all eyes to him — though possibly his divinity will not be widely 
recognized. He will be to the world of soul and of spirit 
what Napoleon was to the material world. Perhaps he will 
be born humbly; a child here in one of these Florentine shops 
or houses; a child, say, in some Peckham villa; possibly in 
China, in Russia, in Palestine. But I think more probably 
he will be born to high estate; perhaps not to the throne of 
a great kingdom, but of one of the lesser monarchies or duchies. 
It is only dream on my part; I do not predict or know. Yet 
my own idea is this: supposing Armageddon comes, a war in 
which all the nations will be joined. At its conclusion the 
world will be in chaos, and Anti-Christ will be revealed. 
What if, in the break-up of that tremendous conflagration, the 
Crescent is driven from the Holy Land, and, in a new Jerusa- 
lem, Christ, born again into the world, reigns indeed as King 
of the Jews?” 

“It is only an idea,” said Ledgar. “To me it seems entirely 
fantasy.” 

“Of course. As I say, I have had no vision. And yet, 
sometimes, I seem to see dimly, as a cloud, great events to- 
wards which this world and age are rushing. There is unrest, 
confusion everywhere; things cannot go on. I think, Ledgar, 
there is going to be an awful storm. I do not know; it may 
be merely imagination acting on impressions of events. I be- 
lieve I have the gift of second sight ; but I attach little impor- 
tance to that. Only — you know one has a headache when 
thunder is about.” 

“I confess I never credited you with the possession of second 
sight. Not a wizard? Not surely a wizard? . . . But I say, 
Maurice, talking about that, what a ripping description 
Merejkowski gives of the Witches’ Sabbath. When I was 
a child, I was horribly afraid of witches. Some old lady at 
the chapel gave me a book once with a picture of witches 
astride broomsticks. Do you know, I woke up suddenly to 
find the enlarged shadow of my nose thrown by the nightlight 
on the pillow; I was quite certain one of the old witches was 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 293 

bending over me; I v^^ent about in terror for days. That is 
one of my standing arguments against Christianity. The Bible 
asserts most definitely the existence of witches. There is the 
Witch of Endor; and there is the injunction, ‘Thou shalt not 
suffer a witch to live,’ a command which has been responsible 
for some of the most horrible episodes in religious history. On 
the strength of it even in New England women and girls 
were done to death by men who had emigrated in order to 
worship God in a purer fashion ... Yet we know now that 
there are no witches.” 

“The Bible says that there are evil spirits. We know now 
that there are no evil spirits. Yet I believe there are . . . 
How do you account for the belief in witchcraft?” 

“I don’t account for it. I don’t attempt to account for it, 
I simply say the thing doesn’t exist.” 

“Yes — but there’s no smoke without fire. Men do not con- 
struct and believe in witches, fairies, demons, merely for amuse- 
ment. Wherever you find some widely spread belief, you 
find some fact of experience underlying it. My explanation 
of witchcraft is simply this. Someone, old perhaps, poor, 
miserable, suffering from harsh treatment or injustice, nurses 
a grievance against the world. Now the really strong power 
in the world is love, but with certain natures hate asserts 
a fictitious claim to power. The devil (who really does exist) 
puts forward the suggestion, ‘Serve me, and you can wreak 
vengeance; impotent as you are, with my help you can be 
strong enough to hurt.’ The witch — or wizard — ^works spells 
and incantations under this delusion; wills injury or death to 
real or fancied enemies. And people are injured. Men and 
women whose wax effigies have been melted, stuck with pins, 
tormented, do really suffer pain; do really pine away and die. 
A first success induces repetition if the one working these spells 
remains malevolent. Why? Have the incantations and the 
will to do harm, any power to hurt? Of course not. They 
harm no one. But God, seeing one living being wretched, 
on the wrong path, taking a road which must lead to inevitable 


294 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

destruction if persisted in, spares none in the desire and effort 
to save. You vv^ill the death of someone? That one shall die, 
to see if the death may touch you to pity, or frighten you 
into charity and righteousness.” 

“Perhaps it may be so,” said Ledgar dubiously. “But you 
confirm my impression that your God is really an extremely 
incompetent Being. He sets these creatures in their places; 
they go wrong; He kills the one against whom they cherish 
a grievance; He kills another; at last the vengeance of the 
community falls upon the one who imagines himself or herself 
perpetrator of these crimes. That’s your idea? Well, but 
death succeeding death — it seems to me — as often as not con- 
firms the belief in the real potency of evil . . . Honestly, I 
very seriously doubt the existence of this God at all. Some- 
times I seem to believe in Him. Now I’ll tell you an odd 
thing. When I was a small boy, and was saved from a great 
storm and what I thought certain death, I went down on my 
knees to thank God for saving me. Before I went to bed on 
the day Telfer’s letter came, I went down again on my knees 
and said (because I was jolly pleased and excited), ‘O God, 
if there really happens to be One, I’m much obliged to You 
for the letter about my book. I shall be still more obliged 
if You can arrange for its publication!’ All the same. I’m 
doubtful about His real existence. I’ve traveled some way 
from childhood. Then I thought everything only cruel; bit- 
terly, heartlessly, remorselessly cruel. I think still that things 
are cruel; fearful cruelty underneath; but I can see that life 
is interesting, the world beautiful. Whether it’s all worth 
while is another question.” 

“Of course,” said Jelf, “God is a God who hides Himself; 
but He is not far from any one of us if we have the will 
to serve Him. I don’t think He can be proved by intellectual 
processes; apologetics generally leave me cold; each argument 
suggests immediately a refutation. Still, take things as they 
stand, simply and obviously. Come and look at this row of 
shops. Here’s the chemist’s; a thousand different kinds of 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 295 

powders, syrups, poisons, medicines, each with its own taste, 
its own color, its own smell. Here’s the fishmonger’s; all 
varieties from salmon to shrimp, from oyster to periwinkle. 
The greengrocer’s — melon and white currant, cucumber and 
cherry. The music shop; a hundred instruments, from organ 
to Jews’ harp, each with its own note. The grocer’s; treacle 
and tea, currants and cornflower, tapioca and tar-soap. Mul- 
tiply these things a thousand-fold for the wealth of far seas, 
rivers, forests, fields. In five minutes’ walk you see that 
one palate has the ability to distinguish a million different 
tastes, from cod-liver oil to caramel; from squills to semolina. 
The eye can distinguish millions of different forms and colors 
and shades; the ear, millions of sounds from the buzzing of 
a gnat to the ’cello or the organ . . . The nostrils, a million 
scents and odors, from eau-de-Cologne to ipecacuanha. How 
did these faculties come? Did they grow — evolve? Or did 
a kind intention make and present us with this palate? . . . 
You say cruelty underlies it all. I believe it does; but so deep 
down that only two born into this world will ever reach it: 
Judas Iscariot and Anti-Christ. Your cruelty of the unfath- 
omed, lonely sea, after the warm, rich, sunny land, is only 
reached by these ... I was reading the other day a little 
story of a German student — a young blonde giant — killed in 
a duel. As he was dying, his eyes lit up with sudden wonder 
and expectancy; he said 'Ko-lossal!" and sank back. There are 
more surprises waiting for us. If a million sounds, a million 
shapes and shades, a million different tastes, meet us in this 
world, what has God prepared in another (this dubious God) 
for those who love him?” 

Ledgar and Jelf left Florence on foot. The weather was 
favorable for walking; with satchels at their side, they started 
on a tramp to Siena.. Ledgar was not sorry for a change 
of plan; he was of a temper that tired quickly of places and 
of people, and already — the show places of Florence having 
been duly visited — showed signs of irritability at a protracted 


296 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

Stay. Jelf would have stayed for a year without impatience, 
but he began to find his friend’s restlessness tending in the 
direction of a quarrel. On the edge of a dispute, Jelf would 
fend off the first words with a jest, and then would find an 
excuse, perhaps in sketching, for leaving Ledgar to his own 
devices for an hour or two. None the less, he entered cheer- 
fully into the idea of tramping to Siena. They started one 
morning before the dew had left the grass. The men at the 
office — Perrin, Tidmarsh, and the rest — would scarcely have 
recognized their spruce and taciturn chief in the man singing 
snatches of old Italian songs, chatting affably to peasants, 
carrying an old woman’s bundle, scattering small coins among 
children, gathering windfalls from beneath the fruit trees by 
the roadside, stopping to lave tired feet in some cooling brook 
or to sketch a group of chestnuts on the summit of some hill, 
a wayside shrine, a yoke of oxen, a tattered goat-herd, with 
pipe at lips. Pan was not dead. Eternally fresh, the Italian 
Spring surrounded and greeted and welcomed them; ages ago. 
Spring on these same roads had flung flowers and largesse of 
golden fruit before wayfarers, yet her garners and treasuries 
were unexhausted. Lads and lasses of whom Horace, Ovid, 
and Catullus — Tasso, Petrarch, and Cino da Pistoia — sang, 
had long been dust; in their day these two wanderers passed 
by the same paths, happily. 

They ate their cheese and bread, drank their red Chianti 
or Barbera by the roadside or in a wood or meadow; arriving 
by night-fall at some inn for the evening meal. 

One afternoon they discovered for their luncheon-place a 
small, neglected olive wood or orchard at the end of a rutted 
path opening by a broken gateway on to the main road. “I 
like to find a place like this,” said Jelf. “It always seems 
to me that in some such place the Virgin may have heard the 
great tidings which were to make her the most blessed among 
women. Have you read Harland’s beautiful description? 
Mary, the little maid — only sixteen — so pure, so sweet, so dear 
to God, is in the orchard when the Angel of the Annunciation 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 297 

comes to her. She must not be frightened. It is to her, 
of all Jewish maidens who have hoped and prayed for such 
greatness and such happiness — to her, expecting nothing in 
her humility — that the glorious tidings of the Messiah is 
brought.” 

There were a few ruins in the orchard, and beyond it an 
almost demolished stanzone (lemon house) led them to further 
exploration. Beyond olives and a few stunted fruit trees was 
a glen covered with weeds and flowers and long grass. Here 
also were clumps of ruin; thin Roman bricks, tessellated tiles, 
hollowed bricks through which percolated the hot water used 
for heating. The ruins were not sufficiently extensive or im- 
portant to have called for inclosure or protection; they stood 
in clumps or patches of red and gray, half-covered with weeds 
and flowers. Two goats were tethered and browsed near. 
Probably, thought Jelf, a Roman villa had once existed on this 
spot. But at the back of the hollow rose a wall of broader 
brick partially covered with stucco; almost wholly overgrown 
with dense masses of hanging creepers, chief among them the 
spirea prunifolia, with its festoons and sprays of white blos- 
som. This wall rose against a mound or hillock of earth, 
at the back of it, rising almost to its summit. Jelf’s first idea 
was that the wall had formed part of an amphitheater for- 
merly attached to the villa. But only a habitation of the first 
importance would have had such an annexe; the villa had ob- 
viously not been very extensive. They climbed the earth 
mound, and when it ended were able, by means of roots of 
ivy and lianes and tangled creepers, to hoist themselves to the 
top of the wall, which was three or four feet wide. Owing to 
the dense foliage and the network of roots and branches, 
it was necessary to step very warily. Jelf, after examination 
and consideration, decided that it belonged to a building of 
considerably later date than Roman; the bricks were too thick 
and massive for Roman work; probably it dated from the 
thirteenth or fourteenth century. Very likely, he thought, a 
chapel used by pilgrims on their way to a neighboring shrine. 


298 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

He kicked at some of the brickwork, and Ledgar had just time 
to clutch his arm as several of the dislodged bricks fell in a 
cloud of dust. In their fall, some of the festooned creeper 
was torn away, revealing the naked stucco of the wall beneath 
them. It bore faded traces of coloring and gilding. “I say, 
this looks like a discovery,” said Jelf. “There seems to be 
some kind of fresco not quite obliterated — the creepers have 
saved it — I wish there were some way of examining it at close 
quarters.” Ledgar deterred him from a hot-headed attempt 
to climb down by the frail support of the ropes of hanging 
foliage. “Don’t be mad, Maurice,” he said, “you’ll break 
your neck. It’s not worth it.” 

“Well, perhaps we’ll find a way when we reach the village. 
I’m sure it’s worth looking into.” 

They tramped on until, towards sunset, they reached 
Maggio, the small village which was to be their stopping 
place for the night. It consisted of a score of white cot- 
tages, a church, an inn, and a tiny museum which exhibited 
a couple of cases of antiquities from the vicinity, and half a 
dozen stuffed and moth-eaten birds and beasts. The ancient 
custodian looked as if he himself had not been quite properly 
preserved from moth. “And do you live here?” asked Ledgar, 
after due and solemn inspection of the relics. “Not yet, sir,” 
he answered with a sheepish smile. They went into the church ; 
three or four peasants were on their knees, and a little child 
came in carrying a basket, and knelt for a few minutes.. “Now 
you don’t see that in England,” said Jelf. “No one ever 
enters a Baptist chapel in the heat of the day’s work, or in the 
shadow of the day when that work is over. They keep them 
closed except on Sundays. You do notice that one thing in 
Italy; religion is more a part of their daily and common life; 
it is not something to be kept apart, and to be half ashamed 
of. In England we make religion a detached, side business 
covered with as much shamefaced solemnity as possible. It 
has an air of artificiality; not natural; people are frightened 
away from it. But here, as one writer says, the church is 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 299 

their inn, the Blessed Table their ordinary. . . , That 
Sposalizio looks as if it may be by Caravaggio.” 

The inn stood in front of a small square, with a battered 
fountain in the center bearing the arms of the Medici. Girls 
were filling pitchers, and a yoke of oxen was being watered 
when they drew near. At the back of the inn stood a small 
but well-stocked garden filled with red and crimson borracina 
roses, clumps of wallflowers, and tulips. In the common room 
of the inn several peasants were drinking; Jelf and Ledgar 
were shown into a smaller room opening on to the garden. 
The host, a plump little man, extraordinarily rubicund for an 
Italian, ushered them in with much ceremony and waving 
of napkin. He was garrulous, and an authority on everything 
within the range of his experience. Small as it was, he was 
proud that Maggio had a history. The Strozzi and the Rucelai 
had come to blows once in this very Square; they were at 
feud, and the young heir of the Rucelai was stabbed in the 
melee. Sir John Hawkwood, the famous mercenary — once an 
Essex tailor — had slept at the inn. Maurice made inquiries 
about their discovery of the afternoon. It appeared that, as 
he had surmised, it was actually a ruined chapel — not for pil- 
grims, but a small private chapel belonging to a house once 
occupied by the Strozzi as their country seat. A Roman villa 
had stood on the same site. Many of the cottages in the neigh- 
borhood were built from ruins of the house. He knew nothing 
of the fresco. But he was interested himself in the discovery; 
on the morrow they would go together, taking ropes, and 
would see what might be seen. 

They were served with an excellent dinner; fish, jugged 
hare, fruit in abundance, and excellent red wine. On wines 
also their host was an authority; he discoursed at length on 
different vintages, and quoted Pliny on wines distilled from 
flowers. About England — English customs, English politics — 
he was intensely curious. Gladstone, now; was he a man? 
Really a man? Because a young Englishman staying in the 
house had assured him solemnly that he was really an old 


300 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

Woman. Of course, England was ruled by a Queen, but that 
her politicians also — he was happy to be reassured. 

And at this moment the young man made his appearance. 

He appeared to be some type of commercial traveler; a 
brisk, amusing, alert character, whose principal occupation 
since his arrival at the inn seemed to have been the pulling 
of his good host’s leg. He seemed to have added in many 
directions to his knowledge of British ways. Mine host had 
learnt from him, for instance, that the great vice of the English 
was the drinking of adulterated soda water, which was gradu- 
ally undermining the constitution of the nation; that even 
Her Majesty herself was a confirmed sodamaniac. He sup- 
plied much interesting information about Court life — seeing 
that on this subject the landlord showed the keenest interest 
— and narrated many stories of his experiences as whipping boy 
to the Royal Princes. It was his grandfather who, in a ser- 
mon preached in Scotland before the Queen, had scandalized 
the whole court by comparing Her Majesty to a young he-goat 
skipping upon the mountains; an allusion, of course, to her 
love of Highland scenery. He introduced himself to Jelf and 
Ledgar as Mr. Hart. He mentioned his name, he said, diffi- 
dently; it had always been a grievance to him since his school 
days when the other boys taunted him with the verse “Oh, that 
I had feet like Hart’s feet.” 

They drank their coffee and smoked their long cigars after 
dinner at a table outside the inn. While they were still there, 
a traveling puppet-show pulled up in the court; benches were 
placed round; a beaten drum called together an audience. 
First of all the marionettes — lit by flaring naphtha — enacted 
a small love tragedy, “Pierrot and Pierrette,” not unlike “Pag- 
liacci” in its plot. The curtain went down amid applause. 
When it rose again, a black, haggard figure striking a muf- 
fled drum limped on to the stage. 

“Why, it’s Death!” cried Ledgar. “Surely it can’t be 
‘Everyman’ ?” 

It was “Everyman/’ an Italian rendering of the old morality; 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 301 

without the Elizabethan figures, without some of the scenes 
and characters and accessories; yet in the main, even in dia- 
logue, the play which Ledgar and Mary had seen in London, 
when they met Mrs. Campion and Winnie. Jelf had not 
seen it. ^‘H’m, more of the morbid,” was his comment. 
“Extraordinary what an appeal it makes to these people.” But 
as the action progressed — as the hollow drum sounded in the 
ears of Everyman, going about his ordinary life and pleasure — 
as it came nearer, and as unrest gave place to apprehension — 
apprehension to fright and then to abject terror — as he turned 
vainly in panic from friend to friend, from wealth to place, 
hoping for succor where no succor was — to the very end, when 
he descended into the pit, and the grave closed over him — ^Jelf 
watched with half-open mouth, with eyes full of the keenest 
interest. Its spell held the crowd of villagers, the local gen- 
darme, the old priest who had come down to point the moral, 
as it held the people of Elizabethan England; as it had held 
the London audience. 

“It’s — it’s wonderful,” said Jelf when at last the curtain 
fell. With its influence still upon him, he walked to the inn 
without speaking. He seemed at last to rouse himself by an 
effort. 

“We’ll have some wine to warm us; it’s a little chilly in 
the court.” 

They sat together by the window of the little room. In 
the garden fireflies glittered among the roses. From the vil- 
lage came the pure, sweet voice of a girl at her doorstep, sing- 
ing a canzone of the strolling players — one of those little songs 
eked out by improvization which are popular among the 
peasant folk throughout the length and breadth of Italy; their 
authorship unknown, because often if the writer’s name is 
familiar the singers will reject his song. 

Che se ben con effetto to peccai, 
lo do materia che ognun dica: 

CKessendo vagabonda io sia impudicaf 


302 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Soft and clear and sweet, the words came to them on the 
evening air. The sun had set some time since; but last gleams 
of rose and saffron, gold and purple, hovered above the soft 
swellings of umbrageous hills. As they listened, bats passed 
on dusky wings; poplar, ilex, and cypress stood out in ink- 
black silhouette; the sky’s violet deepened almost imperceptibly 
into night. 

“I don’t think there’s thunder about,” asked Maurice by 
and by. “It’s not the weather for a storm. But somehow 
... I don’t know. I have that curious sensation again of 
something on the verge of happening. Only fancy, of course. 
Do you know what I was thinking when we were watching 
the Morality? Of those lines in one of Mark Rutherford’s 
books — I think the ‘Autobiography’ — a man has come to the 
night when he realizes that he is to die. The play brings the 
reality and inevitableness of death very near to one. It is 
nothing to fear; it is something unutterably solemn. The end 
of one stage of life and experience ; the end of uncounted striv- 
ings, self-communings, failures, hopes, disappointments. The 
roses fade around the porch of roses; the clock has ceased to 
sound; the long day closes . . .” 

“You accuse me of being morbid, Maurice. You are mor- 
bid tonight yourself.” 

“Morbid? No, serious. Oh, and another thing struck me; 
fancy again this also.” 

“You are chock-full of fancies.” 

“You know when we saw that fading fresco of Leonardo’s 
in Milan : the ‘Cenacolo’ ? Did the dusky face of Death in the 
Morality remind you at all of the face of Judas? I don’t 
mean that there was any real resemblance. But something in 
the sadness, the loneliness ” 

“Not a bit,” said Ledgar. 

“Esau who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage; Jacob 
who kept his Father’s blessing. Judas who sold his Master 
for thirty pieces of silver; Jesus Christ ” 

“Was Christ the Master of Judas? It seems to me that 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 303 

Judas would have flung the suggestion from him with bitter 
and proud contempt.” 

“Yes . . . Still, he was of the disciples; he pretended to 
do him homage. Then Anti-Christ, selling his birthright also; 
killing the love of God. And Christ again.” 

“Drink up your wine, Maurice, and don’t be silly. I’m 
tired to death of your constant harping on Anti-Christ and 
the second coming. I see no indication of such events at 
hand.” Ledgar drummed irritably on the small table at which 
they sat. “You’re obsessed with that subject. Are you under 
the mantle of Elisha?” 

“No, nor have I worn out the peau de chagrin, thank 
God. . . . I’m sorry, old chap. I promise you as long as I 
live you shall never again hear the name Anti-Christ pass my 
lips. Well, we’d better go to bed.” At the door of Ledgar’s 
room he paused. “Good night, old chap . — Noctem quietam 
once more.” He went down the passage. Then he turned as 
if on sudden impulse, and held out his hand. “We’ve had an- 
other ripping day. Good night again, Ledgar. God bless 
you!” 

Ledgar sat for a few minutes on his window seat, looking 
out over the soft masses of foliage in the garden, beyond which 
lights twinkled here and there from cottage windows in the 
village. But most of the houses were asleep. He shivered; 
not with cold, but rather with that sensation which means, 
or is said to mean, the passing of feet above a grave. Wonder- 
fully beautiful, wonderfully interesting, the world; but the 
hollow echoes of Death’s drum had sounded among the bor- 
racina roses. Maurice seemed awfully strange tonight . . . 
“God bless you!” An unaccountable realization of the burden 
of the mystery of all this unintelligible world swept over him; 
it was long years since he had experienced it; and now it was 
something more than a sense of bitter, ruthless, unreasoning 
cruelty. “Oh, what does it all mean, and what is truth?” he 
cried in agony. “What is behind it all — cruelty, or love? 
Is there a God? Did this Christ live and die?” For a minute 


304 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

or two he was oppressed by a fear altogether new to him; the 
fear that the rejection of what Maurice, of what so many in 
this land and in his own, believed, might really cost him the 
blessing, which might be sought then too late, bitterly, ear- 
nestly, vainly, with tears. Supposing this were the night for 
him to die! He shook himself free from the thought; thrust 
aside an impulse, almost overpowering for the moment, to go 
down to Maurice and ask him how truth could be discovered; 
how it was possible to secure blessing, if blessing were to be 
secured. 

“That Morality has given me the creeps,” he said, with 
some contempt for himself. “I hope Maurice isn’t feeling 
seedy; he was quite melancholy tonight. I’ve never seen him 
like that before.” 

He went early the next morning to Maurice’s room. Jelf 
was stripped and singing as he sponged himself, just as Gordon 
Beltinge used to do. “Hullo, Ledgar!” he cried. “Had a 
noctem quietamf Our host’s going to take us to the ruined 
chapel this afternoon, you remember; I’m getting quite excited 
about it.” 

They started at three o’clock; the landlord carrying ropes 
and a pick, in case anything else might be found worth explora- 
tion. Hart, with Hart’s feet — ^which really were prodigious — 
cased in vast canvas shoes, made by his own request a fourth 
member of their party. He enlivened the way with a lively 
recital, for the benefit of their host, of the way in which an 
illustrious Duchess had been beheaded by Queen Victoria for 
purloining the Koh-i-Noor. 

While Hart remained below, digging for treasure on his own 
account with an umbrella point, the landlord, Ledgar, and 
Jelf climbed to the summit of the wall. The bricks at the 
top, where they were uncovered by the tangle and cluster of 
creepers, were worn and broken. “Mind how you tread, old 
chap,” said Jelf to Ledgar. “It’s my show; let me go first.” 

The rope which they were to hold was already round his 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 305 

waist. “Be careful yourself, Maurice,” cried Ledgar; but the 
warning came too late. Two or three bricks beneath his feet 
gave way; he was over the edge with a short half cry half 
gasp, rather of surprise than of alarm. 

In an instant Ledgar caught the end of the rope. “Quick, 
quick,” he shouted to the landlord, who, too stout for brisk 
movement, was toiling laboriously after them. More bricks 
fell; the whole wall seemed at the sudden strain in danger of 
falling. Ledgar threw himself back and resisted the almost 
intolerable pressure with all his strength and weight. Was 
that fat old Italian never coming? He could hear his grunts 
and gasps and the cumbrous noises of his movements — seem- 
ingly miles and ages distant. It was all unreal; a dream, a 
nightmare. His slipping, slithering feet dislodged more of the 
brick and stucco, which fell in powdery dust. “Hang on, old 
chap!” he gasped to Maurice. 

Even in that terrible moment, his sense of the ludicrous 
summoned an absurd image before his mind. He had written 
a story to a wood-cut depicting a man dangling by a rope from 
the car of a balloon, some fifty feet or so from the ground. A 
man in the car was cutting the rope, while below another man 
took careful aim with a rifle at the unfortunate. The editor 
had placed beneath the illustration the words, “I almost thought 
that my last hour had come!” 

And then, to his horror, he saw that Maurice, as he swung 
in space, fumbled in the pocket of his knickerbockers. In a 
second his knife was out and opened. “Maurice, Maurice,” 
Ledgar cried, “don’t cut it! I can hang on. Ricenti’s coming! 
Ricenti! Hart!” 

Maurice paid no heed. Inch by inch, Ledgar was being 
dragged by the swaying weight to the edge. In a second he 
would be over. 

“Maurice! I shall jump too, if you cut the rope!” 

It was too late. 

Ledgar did not jump. As the living burden fell, and the 
rope was released, he was thrown back; recovering himself. 


3 o 6 The Rise of hedgar Dunstan 

he crept to the edge and looked over. Sweat stood on his brow 
in cold beads. Maurice lay motionless among leaves and 
rubble. Hart was already bending over him. 

He was still alive, but unconscious. 

They carried him on a shutter to the inn, where he was 
placed in the small room in which they took their meals. Led- 
gar sat beside him as the afternoon wore on through golden 
hours to dusk. He became at last delirious; talking of many 
things more or less coherently; now it was of some official task 
— instructions perhaps given to some clerk about the guaran- 
teeing of a risk; now he seemed to be giving Mrs. Folley mat- 
ter-of-fact orders about his chambers; and then his thoughts 
seemed to go back to childhood ; he was hunting out facts again 
for his grandfather in the library, or having tea in the summer 
house. 

And once he called out, quite sharply, “I’m coming, Grace; 
'I’m coming!” Ledgar knew that the blue Adriatic, crested 
with white, was before him; and that again in his delirium he 
went through the great tragedy of his life. 

Night had just fallen when the end came. For a few min- 
utes his mind seemed to clear; his hand seemed to be groping, 
and Ledgar took it in his own. “God bless you, old chap,” 
Maurice whispered. “Don’t — lose — the blessing like Esau!” 

Bats circled in the dusk ; the scent of the roses came through 
the open window. Just about this hour, only a night before, 
Maurice had spoken of the roses fading about the porch, of 
the clock ceasing to sound, of the long day closing. From 
the village came the soft clear voice of the village girl singing 
her canzone; the vespers and compline that closed her working 
hours. Maurice’s sight seemed to be failing him. The local 
chemist, who doctored the small community, had been sum- 
moned; he administered some restorative. “Are you there, 
Ledgar?” 

“Yes, dear old chap, I’m here.” 

Maurice pressed his hand. For a minute or two he lay 
silent. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 307 

Suddenly he raised himself, and his eyes turned upon Ledgar 
with a quick and happy smile. *'Ko4ossal, old chap, ko- 
lossair 

Ledgar bent over him and kissed his brow ... He sank 
back among the pillows, and the song of the singer ended. 

Maurice Jelf had completed his unethical sacrifice. 


CHAPTER X 


L EDGAR was surprised to find that the grief he felt at 
the death of his closest friend was by no means poig- 
nant or acute. Face to face once more with death, he 
did not now find in it senseless and pitiless cruelty. Deep sad- 
ness,' profound melancholy — but no bitterness — were associated 
with his sorrow. Jelf had died with a smile on his lips and in 
his eyes; it almost seemed as if his last word, ''^Ko-lossal/^ bring- 
ing to mind a story he had told so recently, did indeed mean 
that his dying eyes had seen Something behind the veil; and 
that Something not terrible, but glorious and wonderful be- 
yond expectation. All the setting; the soft Italian night, the 
scent of roses, the village girl’s song coming from the distance, 
made this a beautiful ending to a life that had itself been 
beautiful. Again and again Ledgar went over his friend’s 
last injunction to him; to be careful not to lose the blessing of 
God as Esau lost it. He wondered if there had been in Jelf’s 
mind some solicitude, some dim thought that Ledgar was in- 
deed, through his detachment from so many human interests, 
his attitude toward moral values, his seeming lack of family 
affection, above all his pride, in real danger of that loss. 
Ledgar could not altogether shake off this impression. He 
knew what had gone on, what was going on, within himself; 
he remembered also (Oh, a curse on that unhappy tempera- 
ment!) that when Maurice was near the point of death the 
thought had crossed his mind, “I wonder whether he too will 
breathe as Aunt Eliza did.” Well, he had spurned it, and he 
surely was not responsible for the passing of a thought. Yet 
the very fact that it should still be possible was disquieting. 
He knew himself farther from Heaven than when he was a 
child ; he knew the mercury had fallen, the wild ass’s skin had 
shrunk through the manner of his secret life. Jelf, knowing 

308 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan . 309 

the same danger in his own case, had pinned himself to a faith, 
and disciplined himself by occupation. Ledgar’s intellect tried 
feebly to disentangle some definite God from his knowledge, 
his reading, his observation, and his experience of life. A cruel 
world, yet not wholly a cruel world ; a world very wonderful, 
very interesting in many ways, and very beautiful. No ; reason 
was baffled everywhere. The vermiform appendices upset the 
most ingeniously constructed argument. Why should a Perfect 
God make a universe imperfect in every detail and call it good ? 
Jelf had said "'Ko-lossair with his dying breath — and smiled in 
saying it — but he was still without the veil. Others whom 
he had seen die — his mother, his aunt — had given no sign. And 
all kinds of dying utterances, confusing and conflicting in their 
testimony, had been recorded. The secret was kept a secret; 
dead men still told no tales. “More light,” one had said. Did 
he mean that there was more light? Or did he mean that in 
face of the Ko-lossal light was lacking?” 

Ledgar had read a story of a Spanish priest in South Amer- 
ica. A friend of his, a medical man, was sentenced to the 
guillotine; it was arranged between them that directly the 
execution was over the severed head should close and open its 
eyes three times, if possible, to indicate the continuance of ex- 
istence. Directly the head fell the priest caught it from the 
mouth of the gaping basket. “Quick, is there anything, my 
friend?” The eyes closed and opened, closed and opened — and 
remained closed forever. Here, as everywhere, the last con- 
vincing proof was missing. Everywhere, in all arguments, 
there were the two closings — the secret nearly revealed — and 
then impenetrable silence. 

Jelf had admitted that intellect could not solve the mystery 
unaided; it could be solved only by reason and religious ex- 
perience acting in concert. He had not this religious experi- 
ence. Nothing within himself convinced him of the existence 
or nature of God. He was afraid to answer the question 
whether he was seriously anxious for this experience. To fulfill 
the conditions laid down by Christ as to the attainment of 


310 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

knowledge meant deprivations, discipline, which he was loath 
to face . . . 

They buried Jelf under the cypresses at Maggio, under the 
soil and among the people he had loved. Ledgar came back 
directly to London; a sad and lonely journey. They had 
traveled that way in such happiness, such expectation; the 
countryside now — champaign clothed with ilex, poplar, the 
cypresses of death — desolate mountain regions of snow and ice 
and stone — steel-blue lakes — all still beautiful, but beautiful 
with an infinite sadness. At every turn he missed his compan- 
ion, and a hundred little acts of unselfishness received at the 
time without recognition or even with irritability. For a 
quarter of an hour they had paced this station platform in the 
dead of night; it was here the old priest had entered their 
compartment; this was the table at which they had eaten their 
first breakfast in Switzerland. 

The homecoming to Marlow’s Inn was worst of all. He 
hated to enter the familiar rooms where they would no longer 
smoke and chat together; where no longer Jelf’s light touch 
would fill the mind with memories, quicken the pulses, make 
a dead past of gallants, of minuets, of fans and swords and 
satins, live again. He hated most of all to hear Mrs. Folley’s 
lamentations and perhaps tears. No doubt Maurice would be 
canonized; enshrined with the holy Mr. Holylake . . . Her 
first tempestuous grief — partially concealed beneath a far from 
immaculate apron — over, Mrs. Folley recounted at great length 
all the accidents and all the illnesses which she had encoun- 
tered, heard of, or experienced in the course of a long life. 
Her heart-attacks were not forgotten, nor the time when she 
was under the ’orspital and her life despaired of ; her pulse one 
hundred and seventeen, her temperature two hundred and 
fifty-three — if her memory was correct, but she was not 
sure of the exact figures. The doctors told her she was 
at death’s door, but they’d do their best to pull her through. 
And since the occasion was of such melancholy importance, 
when false shame or modesty might be set aside, she even re- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 31 1 

lated how the late Mr. Folley had looked (according to an 
informant who was present on the sad occasion) after he had 
been cut down. There seemed to her something peculiarly 
appropriate in this narrative, since both Mr. Folley and Mr. 
Jelf had been cut down, literally, in their prime. But here 
Ledgar abruptly brought the conversation to a close. 

Her grief was so unaffected that on the following day Led- 
gar found her mournfully taking an inventory of her small 
stock of furniture. She did not think she could bear Marlow’s 
Inn in future, but if possible would prefer private service. . . . 
But Mrs. Folley’s services did not seem to be in great demand 
and — to Ledgar’s disappointment — she decided to stay on, and 
assuage her grief by redoubled kindness to her present tenants. 

Ledgar felt that life at the Inn now, without Maurice, 
would be almost intolerable. He was restless, unsettled ; could 
apply himself to nothing. Maurice, at the office and in cham- 
bers, had been the chief part of his now broken life. The 
thought crossed his mind that in some way Jelf’s death might 
have been due to him, not directly, but as a warning or an 
education. Mrs. Muttleboy had died of steak pie — or of a 
sudden shock. He remembered how Leonardo da Vinci, him- 
self finally a splendid failure, had caused ruin and desolation 
along the whole track of his life to those who followed and 
believed in him and loved him. 

His own unrest reminded him of Uncle Ab after his aunt’s 
death. Less happy that old man than the halcyon which in age 
and feebleness is borne on the pinions of its mate! He went 
down to Canford Lodge shortly after his return to London. 
Uncle Ab was comparatively comfortable and happy, although 
he wondered querulously what he had done to be a prisoner. 
His old friend the Archbishop was dead ; missing his chess, Mr. 
Muttleboy had been initiated into the mystery and wickedness 
of whist. He asked Ledgar whether, as he never played on 
Sundays, and never played for money, this was very wrong. 
An extremely interesting old gentleman to whom Ledgar was 
duly introduced had taught him; he was of some scientific in- 


312 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

terest, as he distinctly remembered six different incarnations: 
Balaam’s ass, Ananias, Socrates, Charles the First (but only in 
parts), Isaac Watts, and Hannah More — of whose death 
Charles Lamb remarked that “she wasn’t Anny More.” He 
was now the Missing Link. On other points, he was quite 
amusing and intelligent. Another of the whist party was a 
plump old gentleman who suffered from the peculiar delusion 
that he was a mince pie. He was perfectly harmless, except 
when approached with a fork; then he not unnaturally became 
wildly excited at the thought of being speared and eaten. On 
other occasions he regarded his affliction quite good-naturedly. 
At bedtime he appealed to the attendants to “pop him in his 
little bag”; Christmas found him hilarious. The fourth mem- 
ber of their quartet suffered only from an idea of universal 
persecution. 

Ledgar noticed that asylum life was having its customary 
effect in the case of Uncle Ab; he was becoming quite senile, 
and really had developed a delusion — being of the fixed opinion 
that Aunt Eliza was only pretending to be dead in order to 
dispose of him. When not engaged in learning whist, he spent 
most of his time in playing with burned-out matches, small 
stones, and paper letters, which he arranged in various geo- 
metric orders ; his Puritan training revealed itself in his remark 
to Ledgar that he had consulted the chaplain as to whether he 
was committing any sin in doing this; it was decided that as 
he did not worship them, and as the stones were not made by 
hands, he was infringing no divine laws. Ledgar left him very 
happy with an enormous bag of sweets. 

The old life seemed to be altogether broken off. A young 
solicitor who had been a friend of Jelf’s had Maurice’s affairs 
in hand ; he had left property bringing in about three hundred 
and fifty pounds a year ; of this he had left a hundred a year to 
Ledgar, and the remainder to his two sisters, living in the 
North of England. During the settlement of this melancholy 
business Ledgar went to dine one evening with the solicitor, a 
Mr. Burslem, who lived in a quiet street of small houses not 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 313 

far from Hyde Park. On their way they passed through the 
Park, and Burslem drew Ledgar’s attention to a carriage with 
magnificent horses, coachman and footman with cockades, and, 
ensconced among the cushions, an old lady dressed in very anti- 
quated fashion. Her hair was in long white ringlets; she wore 
a crinolined dress of lilac silk sprigged with flowers, and a 
poke bonnet, and by her side was a King Charles spaniel. 

“Any idea who that is ?” asked Burslem. 

“Not the remotest, unless she’s Queen Charlotte or Nell 
Gwynne. I’m a little uncertain about costumes. Who is she?” 

“Well, she’s a little bit of the underworld of which as a 
rule only quite third-rate people have the slightest inkling. 
You know those shilling and sixpenny shockers you see so 
often on the bookstalls — secret service, state papers, beautiful 
spies, political tragedies — all that sort of thing? No first-rate 
writer ever touches it. Intelligent and educated people laugh 
at the whole business. Yet it’s an actual fact; actually going 
on, here in the nineteenth century in London. I’ve done some 
legal business with that old woman; she has a magnificent 
house in the West End, splendid furniture, china, tapestries, 
antiques; pages in Louis Seize uniforms open the doors of the 
salons to you. She’s nothing more nor less than a spy, a spy 
of the first order, extracting information from Cabinet Min- 
isters, Members of Parliament; no common people. I don’t 
say that she gets hold of very much, but her Government pays 
her handsomely. If you could take the lid off Society you 
would find some astounding things, I can tell you. There’s a 
regular network of espionage of which the man in the street 
knows nothing, and the idea of which he would laugh to 
ridicule. A spy puts the razor to your throat; sells you your 
cigarettes ; brushes your coat for you ; hands you your soup and 
cutlets.” 

“My attitude,” said Ledgar, “is rather that of the man in 
the street. I am very much inclined to doubt it. Why should 
such a system exist outside the diseased imaginations of the 
writers of pot-boilers?” 


314 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Well, it does. In our profession we do sometimes get a 
glimpse under the lid. I know of one case, a wealthy country 
gentleman with a big house, acting the local squire as far as 
it is possible to do so ; lavish with his money, popular with his 
neighbors. Every now and then he motors out to keep mys- 
terious appointments on lonely country roads at night. He’s 
a master spy, holding and pulling the wires which control the 
movements of puppets in different parts of England, the small 
fry of his profession, waiters, barbers, wandering musicians. 
It has never been brought home to him, but it’s a fact none the 
less. The object? Simply that the train’s there, ready at any 
time for the spark. The most violent absurdity of sensational 
fiction is commonplace beside the facts. I don’t believe in the 
scare-mongers myself; but if there ever is a general bust up 
in Europe, people will open their eyes a little. . . . Extra- 
ordinary, what secrets London does hold! I could tell you 
things about people whose names are household words (only 
I must not) that would make you sit up.” 

Unsuspected possibilities in London’s life filled Ledgar ’s 
mind as he journeyed back to Marlow’s Inn. If the cover 
could only be taken off! If the cover could be taken off those 
people at the Lodge, revealing their secret lives, thoughts, 
emotions — knowledge. No one knew; no one guessed; no 
one could know. The secret was too well kept. Only, there 
the secret was ... If the cover could be taken off this hum- 
drum everyday life of London, the life he thought he knew 
so well, with its luncheons, its visits to the barber, its itinerant 
bands, its foreign clerks working affably beside the English 
... If the cover could be taken off that last and greatest 
mystery. Death . . . 

Ledgar had now two hundred and fifty pounds a year, in 
addition to his salary at the office, and in the event of Mr. 
Muttleboy’s death he would probably inherit a considerable 
■sum from his estate. He made inquiries on two or three oc- 
casions at the Cosmopolitan Agency about his bookj only to 
learn that it had been the round of half a dozen publishers 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 315 

without success, though some had commented on it very favor- 
ably. The book trade was in such an appalling state, however, 
according to Mr. Teller, that an acceptance was in the last 
degree improbable. Miss Belinda Brookes had abandoned lit- 
erature for the more profitable occupation of baby farming; 
Mr. Alfred Wood was engaged in breeding gentles for the 
fishing industry. Mr. Teller suggested to Ledgar that there 
was a good opening now for macrame work and toilet tidies. 
He was surprised and immensely elated, soon after a very de- 
pressing report, at hearing that Messrs. Crisp and Bendy — 
quite a distinguished firm — were willing to produce the book 
subject to a few trifling alterations. 

Ledgar for a time walked on air. He spread the news 
widely; at a second visit to the Melpomene he was received 
with distinction; the manager at the office congratulated him 
in his pompous, port-wine voice that always seemed to com- 
bine reprimand with compliment — as who should say, “It’s 
very creditable of you, but as it argues some neglect of official 
duties please don’t do it again”— and he received a very charm- 
ing note from Mary Beltinge. Mary took a profound in- 
terest in literature now that Ledgar was engaged in its pursuit; 
although she made such trifling slips as to refer to Dr. Samuel 
Johnson as “Rare Ben,” and to accuse Jane Austen of writing 
“Moths” . . . After the delights of proof-reading, came the 
red-letter day on which half a dozen presentation copies of the 
book arrived; soon afterwards the first reviews made their 
appearance. Ledgar devoured these with avidity, in spite of 
the fact that a very distinguished author made a point of never 
reading notices of his own work. “A Delightful First Novel” 
was the intoxicating heading of his first notice. The critics, 
on the whole, were very complimentary; he was compared to 
Mrs. Gaskell and Miss Austen by some really first-class peri- 
odicals; to Dickens, Shakespeare, Smollett, Beckford, Sterne, 
and Defoe by others; while one reviewer, for a reason as eb- 
scure as himself and the paper for which he wrote, traced a 
similarity between his work and that of Thomas Tupper. 


3 i 6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Telfer told him that he could barely expect to cover more than 
his expenses by this first book ; but he found a lucrative market 
opened immediately for short stories. When a little tale based 
on the Napoleonic legend, which had always fascinated him, 
brought him ten pounds from an English magazine, and twelve 
with a request for further work from a magazine in the United 
States, he decided that his fortune was already made, and at 
once sent in his resignation to the manager of the office. 

His departure produced a testimonial from his fellow-clerks, 
which coincided, curiously enough, with one given to Tidmarsh 
on the occasion of his marriage. For Tidmarsh had grown 
tired at last of miscellaneous loves — *‘it wasn’t good enough, old 
chap”— and had fixed up matters very suitably with the young 
lady at the florist’s. The two recipients met their admirers 
and well-wishers in the board room; a case of cutlery (the 
usual wedding gift) was presented to Tidmarsh, Ledgar com- 
ing in for a handsome set of illustrated Shakespeares. Perrin 
made a highly amusing speech, in which he deftly joined matri- 
mony and authorship, with somewhat indelicate hints about the 
production of future works. He said there had been consider- 
able discussion as to whether Tidmarsh should be presented 
with cutlery or a perambulator. Tidmarsh replied adequately, 
and also jocularly, correcting himself after including “Ladies” 
in his audience, and opening his remarks with the usual, “Un- 
accustomed as I am to public houses.” He contrived to intro- 
duce the elephant who buried its eggs in the sand. . . . Led- 
gar, very pleased and nervous, commenced with a story of a 
well-known nobleman who was waiting in a hatter’s for his hat 
to be ironed, when a bishop, taking him for an attendant, 
handed him his broad-brimmed, rosetted hat, and asked if he 
had a hat like that. Turning it round and round critically, 
“No,” he replied at last, “and if I had, I’m damned if I’d wear 
it.” Ledgar felt that he was much too humble a person to wear 
the hat — otherwise the fulsome compliments — which Perrin 
had bestowed upon him. . . . There was another story of a 
bishop who was traveling by train and was desperately hungry. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 317 

At a station he gave a newsboy twopence, directing him to 
buy two buns, one for the bishop, one for himself. As the 
train was leaving the station, the boy rushed up munching a 
bun, and handed back a penny; there was only one bun left. 
Ledgar realized that in attracting so much attention to himself 
he was really taking part of Tidmarsh’s bun which he had 
earned by much more meritorious action. It was one thing to 
get a book accepted, and quite another to get yourself accepted 
(loud cheers, and hear, hears). There was yet another story 
of a bishop who was staying at a country house where the 
boot-boy was strictly enjoined to say on knocking at his door 
in the morning, “The boy, my Lord, with the boots.” In his 
nervousness he said, “The Lord, my boy, with the boots.” 
Ledgar was aware that if he kept his mouth open much longer 
he would be putting his foot into it also. But at the risk of 
making them think he was going to exhaust the whole of Crock- 
ford he would give them one last story of a bishop. He also 
was staying at a country house, and a child was told when she 
met his Lordship to say Grace. She accordingly commenced 
“For what we have received, may the Lord make us truly 
thankful.” He had made his stories episcopal to suit the de- 
corous nature of his congregation. Well, now he was going to 
say Grace. There was still another story, not about a bishop 
this time, of a little girl who was taught to say Grace in the 
words, “Thank the Lord for a good meal. Please may I get 
down?” On the first occasion that she was out to tea after 
her lesson, she startled her hostess by exclaiming, “Thank the 
Lord Fve had a good meal, and now Fm going to get down.” 
“And so,” continued Ledgar, “after thanking you gentlemen 
very warmly for the good time you’ve given me at the office, 
and on this auspicious occasion, and after joining my own con- 
gratulations and best wishes to Tidmarsh to those that have 
already been so admirably expressed (‘hear, hear,’ from Perrin) 
I will, with your permission, get down.” (General applause.) 

Universal handshaking followed; much singing of “For they 
are jolly good fellows,” inspection of the presents; drinking of 


3 i 8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

whisky and smoking of cigarettes, the ceremony ended with an 
atmosphere almost opaque with smoke, and a company on the 
brink of mild intoxication, showing itself, according to various 
temperaments, effusively affectionate, quarrelsome, argumenta- 
tive, and egotistic. 

“Awfully decent of you to say what you did about me, old 
chap,” said Tidmarsh, who was in the affectionate state, as he 
and Ledgar washed their hands. “You know, the sort of 
game I’ve been on all these years don’t really pay. I’m tired 
of it. I say, come to dinner with us next Sunday, will you? 
Maud’ll be awfully glad to see you. I think you’ve seen her; 
awfully dear little girl, isn’t she? I often wonder why you 
don’t get fixed up yourself. Take my tip; there’s nothing 
like it.” 

Considering the fact that he had already been married three 
weeks — the presentation having been deferred until the con- 
clusion of the honeymoon — Tidmarsh’s expert opinion was 
worth consideration. Ledgar mentioned two drawbacks in the 
way of his following the advice : he did not know whether any- 
one would have him, and he had not the remotest idea how to 
propose. Tidmarsh said there were plenty of girls about; as 
to the proposal, that was a simpler matter than you would 
think. He himself had been concerned about it. Of course, 
he didn’t want any going down on your knees rot. A fellow 
he knew had told him that he had said “Father says yes, will 
you?”; but that seemed rather a soapy way of doing it. He 
was out with Maudie one afternoon, and he put his pipe on, 
because he always felt more at home with a pipe in his mouth. 
When they got to a lonely part he puffed pretty hard at his 
pipe, and said, “Consider yourself engaged.” She bobbed and 
said “Thank you,” and the thing was done. 

On Sunday Ledgar went down to Peckham, where Tid- 
marsh lived. They had taken a neat little rough-cast — or is it 
half-caste? — house, with a bright green gate and door, and 
bright brass handles, and a tiny garden about the size of an 
old-fashioned pocket-handkerchief — but large enough to grow 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 319 

mustard and cress and other small plants, in a new road lead- 
ing from the Rye. The Rye, said Tidmarsh, was a delightful 
place when you got to know it, especially in early mornings 
when the birds sang among trees surrounding an old farm- 
house; or in the evening when you saw it surrounded with 
lights. It had two ponds; donkeys and goat-chaises, and there 
was some really first-class cricket to be seen. The house was 
newly and quite prettily furnished. Tidmarsh confessed that 
a good deal came from his father-in-law’s; when they went 
there they generally made a point of abstracting any article 
that took their fancy; and it appeared to Ledgar that from the 
number of purloined articles pointed out, the house would soon 
be overflowing and the old gentleman’s correspondingly de- 
pleted. “He don’t mind, though,” said Tidmarsh, “he^s a 
good old stick, and he’s too jolly glad to get Maudie off his 
hands to make any bones about it.” Whereupon Maudie 
pouted rather prettily and smacked her husband’s arm. 

She was really quite a nice, jolly, pretty little girl, as Led- 
gar, with knowledge of Tidmarsh’s former friends, was agree- 
ably surprised to find. Tidmarsh was sensible enough to take 
this business seriously; as he explained, he was not marrying 
for a week. That was the one disadvantage of marriage; he 
thought there ought to be a kind of matrimonial bureau, so 
that if your wife didn’t suit, you could make a fresh selection 
from other unsuitable wives. Supposing a man’s tastes altered, 
for instance, and he found he really preferred a thin, dark wife 
to a fat, fair one, it was jolly hard lines that he should be 
obliged to live with a fat fair one all his life. Now when he 
was eighteen Tidmarsh wouldn’t look at a girl unless she had 
red hair. In the same way, if there was a family of daughters, 
you ought to be able to get one on approval and change her if 
she wasn’t suitable. 

Maudie hadn’t any sisters; only a small brother, a kid in 
spectacles and knickerbockers, who was keen on natural his- 
tory, and spent most of his time vivisecting frogs, and (acting 
on a hint from Mr. Punch) in begging fleas from the general 


320 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

and charwoman for his microscope. Mrs. Jobson came to 
dinner; a fair, fat lady herself, with a fringe and genteel man- 
ners. Pa, being an inspector of police, could not get off; and 
the microscopic Jim had gone to visit his Sunday school teacher. 
. . . The dinner was quite good, and quite nicely served. A 
tart made by Mrs. Tidmarsh was an eminent success, and she 
did the honors of her table very charmingly. A diminutive 
maid, answering to the name of Pauline, whose small rosy face 
looked out from a simply colossal cap, waited at the meal. 
Tidmarsh actually said a rather hurried and bashful Grace. 
Afterwards Pauline, whom they were training up in the way 
she should go, and who already was beginning to wear an 
ancient-retainer look — at all events she was quite an important 
member of the family — was called in to receive a lesson cal- 
culated to cure her of stammering. “That’s really her only 
fault,” said Tidmarsh. “She stammered awfully when she 
came here; Maud got her cheaper because of it. Jolly awk- 
ward sometimes, you know. I found her once with some 
young fellow on the doorstep. He stammered as badly as she 
did, and it turned out that he’d been sent to fetch his little 
sister Annie from a party and had made a mistake in the house ; 
which complicated matters still more. Flaming red hair, he 
had. And there they were, each thinking the other was doing 
it out of mimicry; they’d got their backs against the wall and 
were clicking and guggling like — like clockwork soda-water 
bottles.” 

“And what are they like, dear?” asked Maud. She called 
Tidmarsh “dear” as naturally as if they had been married for 
centuries. 

“Why, like Pauline and the boy, of course.” 

“I don’t think it’s quite so bad as deafness, though,” said 
Maud. “Ma had a charwoman once who was as deaf as a 
post. The worst of her was she hated' people to know she was 
deaf, and always pretended to understand what was said. Ma 
used to talk to her in the deaf and dumb alphabet, but it was a 
bit awkward, because Ma’s lost one of her fingers. But if 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 321 

anyone asked her how her husband was, for instance, she’d 
think they were talking about the weather, and say, ‘Very dull 
and threatening’ ” 

^‘Or ‘very windy,’ ” put in Tidmarsh, and was duly reproved. 

Maud and Tidmarsh put the blushing Pauline through a 
few exercises. She was not at all ashamed of her affliction, 
and was desperately anxious to improve. “Say, ‘Butter, cocoa- 
nuts, and systematic sisters,’ ” suggested Maud. 

“Bub-bub-butter, Kuk-kuk-kukkernut ” 

“That won’t do,” said Tidmarsh. “You’ve got butter bet- 
ter; there were four bubs last time. But cocoanut — well, you 
remind me of the cuckoo clock that a man mended so success- 
fully that it ‘cood’ before it ‘cucked.’ Try again. Co-coa- 
nut.” 

“Systematic sisters” did sound a little like an accident in a 
soda-water factory. Of her own accord, Pauline announced, “I 
can’t suck 

“I can’t suck 

“I can’t suck ” 

“Succeed” came out after convulsive movements. 

“Unless I purr 

“Unless I purr 

“Unless I persevere. Kick, kick, kick. Kick — can I, mum?” 

The lesson concluded with an attempt at “Bibulous brandy 
imbibers booze bottled beer,” instigated by Tidmarsh. Then, 
as it was raining slightly and not good enough to go out, the 
red curtains were drawn, armchairs drawn before the fire, a box 
of fat Wild Hindoos and a squat bottle of sloe gin produced; 
Tidmarsh handed Ledgar a paper called The Literary Guide, 
which contained a good deal about the free-thought move- 
ment, and remarkably little about literature; and they settled 
down to a snug afternoon. 

When the rain cleared, Ledgar and Tidmarsh walked round 
the Rye Pond and up the other side of the Common as far as 
Honor Oak Cemetery. One-Tree Hill was pointed out, 
where until quite recent years an oak had stood under which 


322 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Queen Elizabeth and a hunting party had taken luncheon. 
They came back again by a pleasant red road between fields, 
in which trees showed the first tints of autumn. “Really, you 
know, old chap, as I often say to Maudie, we might be twenty 
miles away from London.” In the evening they went together 
to a Wesleyan Chapel where there was quite a pleasant service, 
and a really intelligent sermon. “You never thought of com- 
ing to chapel with me, I bet, Dunstan,” said Tidmarsh. 
“Maudie likes me to go, and I’m damned if I’m not almost 
beginning to like it myself. Jolly fine-looking girls in the 
choir, aren’t there? I think they ought to let you smoke and have 
a Scotch and soda, though. Still, you can’t have everything.” 

Ledgar thoroughly enjoyed a day to which he had looked 
forward with some apprehension. The contrast between Tid- 
marsh married and the Tidmarsh of unregenerate days made 
the change all the more attractive and startling . . . With all 
his time on his hands Ledgar found life at the Inn depressingly 
lonely and monotonous. You cannot click out copy unremit- 
tingly from breakfast to pipe-out. He had moved now into 
Jelf’s rooms, a change for the better; but it emphasized his 
loneliness. The new arrival at his own chambers was a young 
barrister whose two occupations were studying astronomy and 
playing the bassoon. He manipulated globes spotted with stars ; 
spent much time in spinning round revolving discs and hoops 
which evidently had some connection with the movements of 
heavenly bodies. Awful groans and gurgles as of aged hip- 
popotami dying of bronchitis in reedy recesses rose to the upper 
rooms. Mrs. Folley rushed in at the first outburst with a knife 
and a bottle of ipecacuanha wine fully prepared either to cut 
Mr. Granger down or otherwise as circumstances might direct. 
Mr. Granger for the rest was an extremely tactiturn person 
who grunted his remarks as if he were himself distantly re- 
lated to his bassoon, or at least had caught its complaint . . . 
There was Mrs. Folley left. Her kindness now that Jelf had 
gone was aggressive and almost ferocious; she found inspiration 
in “The Angel in the House,” Pansy’s works, and “Minister- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 323 

ing Angels.” She disarranged Ledgar’s papers with such in- 
genious care that he found a new occupation in rearranging 
them; she warmed his boots and slippers; he had some ado to 
prevent her cutting his envelopes; she did actually attack with 
a paper knife a book which he was particularly anxious to pre- 
serve; she washed a magnificent collection of labels from his 
luggage; he found his feet on a sultry summer night in contact 
with a hot-water bottle, her explanation being that she had 
thought him looking a little pale. Half a dozen times a day 
she inquired about his health, with a solicitude arguing an 
intense desire to tamper medicinally with his food. And once 
she asked him to tea. Mrs. Potts was coming; Mrs. Potts, her 
one intimate friend, a short, stout, dismal lady in blue glasses 
and short skirts that gave her somewhat the appearance of a 
steam roundabout which at any moment might whistle and re- 
volve. Mrs. Potts moved in high circles; she was proud of the 
fact that her husband might have been a postman, if it were 
not for varicose veins, which made him take to the whelk and 
winkle industry instead. As Mrs. Potts was coming to tea, it 
was extremely probable that she would bring her own winkles. 

Ledgar declined the invitation; and had serious thoughts of 
bribing the cat’s meat man who supplied the chambers to woo 
and win his benefactress. It would have been a slight return 
for all her kindness. 

His loneliness and the irritability caused by Mrs. Folley’s 
attentions — most of all, perhaps, the memory of his visit to 
Tidmarsh, so snug and happy in his little Peckham home, re- 
sulted in Ledgar paying a visit to Came Bay before autumn 
was fully merged in winter. Seated in the train, he would 
not for a moment have admitted that he had any intention of 
altering his condition by this holiday; at the same time his 
mind played tentatively with the idea of marriage. Obviously 
Came Bay and its neighborhood was the locale for him to visit 
if any such idea were in his mind. He noted that, like the city 
of Abdera, all the world around him seemed in love with lov- 
ing. A young couple evidently not long married were in the 


324 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

train; he noticed how solicitously the husband provided his 
wife with foot-warmer, papers, and tea-basket. A mother, 
radiantly happy, was playing with two rosy-cheeked children. 
A honeymoon couple entered a second-class compartment: the 
husband, of the ’Arry type, as he tipped the guard cautioned 
him to warn intruders of smallpox and scarlatina. A burly 
farmer and his wife were looking over the papers on the book- 
stall. “’Umph!” pointing to “How to be Happy Though 
Married,” “these Lunnon people doant know how to live 
comfortably together without reading a book about it.” 

Of course, Ledgar had no thought of marriage. He was not 
in love ; he thought of that as a disease which possibly he might 
some day catch — a disease not unlike conversion, with unpleas- 
ant results, and entailing sometimes a lengthy convalescence. 
But he thought, “It would be rather jolly to be buying papers 
now for Mary; to be arranging her rug and foot-warmer; to 
be sharing a tea-basket with her.” Or with Winnie? And 
again — instead of watching the happiness of others, instead of 
looking drearily out of the windows at dreary vistas of yellow 
trees, dull roofs, dismal streets, to be chatting amiably as the 
old farmer and his wife were doing about a hundred common 
interests — ^with Mary. Or with Winnie? 

He wondered how Mary would look on a honeymoon tour; 
very smart, he knew, in a fashionably cut tailor-made costume ; 
a wife for people to stare at in admiration ; for any husband to 
be proud of. 

And little Winnie? Would she be very chough** at being 
married ? 

The train reached Came Bay. In summer time the station 
was crowded with lads and girls in straw hats, Panamas, 
flannels, light dresses; with strings of bucket and spade armed 
children tailing on to parents; with piles of luggage, and port- 
ers trying strenuously to spoon up the unwary on their trucks. 
Now it was almost empty, and the platform wet from recent 
rain. The lamps guttered and were blurred by mist. 

He found his father in an almost empty house. All the 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 325 

children now were off his hands. Emmeline was married to 
some minor official of the corporation, a young man for whom 
Ledgar had some antipathy owing to his nasal manner of 
speaking and his truculent affability. In the fellow’s manner, 
even to Ledgar, there seemed just a hint of patronage; he was 
quite under the impression that he had conferred an honor on 
the Dunstans by marrying into their family. One of the other 
girls was a nursery-governess ; another was a t5^pist at Abbott’s 
Forstal and only came home for week-ends; one boy was in 
his father’s office. Young Ab, now a shop-walker, had married 
a young lady in the flowers and feathers. The amazing thing 
was that Mr. Dunstan really thought he had done quite well 
by his family. He was more dogmatic, more morose, more 
dictatorial, than Ledgar had known him on any previous visit. 
That he was really glad to see his son was, of course, certain ; 
but, as usual, he succeeded admirably in dissembling his love. 
His attitude always did remind Ledgar of the plaintive inquiry, 
“Perhaps you were right to dissemble your love, but why did 
you kick me downstairs?” As ever his conversation was the 
small tittle-tattle of the chapel. Ledgar had sent him a copy 
of the book; Mr. Dunstan had glanced at but not read it; he 
thought it a great mistake to have introduced local people 
“thinly veiled” as he put it, and he considered there was no 
necessity for making people drink intoxicants and use strong 
language. Also, from what he had seen by glancing through 
the pages, the book showed a deplorable tendency towards 
atheism. 

Ledgar found his meals with his father almost as boring as 
his lonely meals in chambers; the two seemed to have no in- 
terests in common. In a well-meant endeavor to discuss lit- 
erature, Ledgar discovered that his father placed Miss Carrie 
Titterton, the authoress of “The Crumbling Crucifix” and kin- 
dred works, on a far higher footing than Scott and Dickens 
and Thomas Hardy. “Now there’s someone who does know 
how to write, my boy. I was reading a story of hers in the 
Sunday Rest. Mr. Masterton put me on to it; he said it was 


326 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

the finest piece of literary work he had seen for years. He 
preached a sermon about it. Why don’t you try and do some- 
thing like that? I understand that her last book went out of 
print.” 

“IVe no doubt, father,” said Ledgar. “But I don’t think I 
could ever write like Miss Carrie Titterton.” 

“Try, my boy, try. You can’t do anything in this world 
without trying.” 

As a relief, Ledgar paid two visits; to Ab and to Emmeline. 
He kissed perfunctorily his sister and two sticky little sons, 
one just promoted to a skin-tight jersey suit, the other in a 
checkered skirt suggesting vaguely draughts and an Italian or- 
gan. Ledgar regarded them all from an aloof standpoint as 
curious animals deserving study. They were not very clean 
in their habits; the house was slovenly, mother and children 
untidy. He noted from observation during three meals that 
they lived chiefly on tinned goods, being possibly under the de- 
lusion that they were in a converted lifeboat; it was an ar- 
rangement suiting the economy of the household. There were 
tinned salmon and tinned nectarines, washed down by tinned 
coffee extract, for dinner; tinned shrimps and tinned golden 
syrup at tea, the milk being also tinned; tinned sardines and 
tinned pears for supper. Emmeline inherited her mother’s love 
for bargains; it was just possible she might have acquired a 
bankrupt grocer’s stock. They seemed to have an amazing 
conceit of themselves; Emmeline, presenting so awful a warn- 
ing unblushingly and even with triumph, asked when he pro- 
posed to follow her example: Fred had some very charming 
sisters. Ledgar remarked with as little emphasis as possible 
that he had had the pleasure of meeting them. Or, of course, 
suggested Emmeline, there was Winnie Campion; though she 
fancied if she wasn’t already engaged she was very near it. 

“Oh, to whom?” asked Ledgar. 

“Do you remember Ted Holderness? He’s in the Bank, 
you know, doing pretty well ; I hear he’s getting a hundred and 
twenty a year, and likely to get a branch-managership.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 327 

Ledgar remembered Holderness very well. He had been 
at school with them; his father was a tailor in Montacute 
Street. Holderness belonged to a type which was particularly 
obnoxious to Ledgar. He aimed at being a muscular, gym- 
nastic, athletic Christian. Men of better position taking that 
role carry sheaves of tracts and presentation booklets in their 
cricket bags; speak at public meetings; carry big Bibles in 
which it is an honor for converts to have their names inscribed ; 
give their autographs to young ladies; induce penitent people 
at revival meetings to stand up while all eyes are closed — and, 
having captured them, exhort them before the eyes of all people 
to come out boldly now that the great decision has been made. 
A mean trick, thought Ledgar; not understanding that it is 
probably the only method by which abnormally obstinate and 
pig-headed goats can be turned first into alpacas, and then into 
sheep duly qualified for the sheepfold. In the walk of life to 
which Ted belonged, you find this particular type, with rosy 
faces aglow with almost too much health, in the bagatelle 
rooms of Christian Associations; drilling squads of little boys 
and teaching them to punch one another in a godly way; pray- 
ing at open-air meetings, and dragging loafers out of public 
houses. Really quite a good and useful type; but a type to 
which Ledgar himself had a strong objection. Their attitude 
always reminded him of Addison exhibiting himself to his son 
as a fine specimen of a dying Christian. “See how a Christian 
can play cricket!” 

“Yes, my dear sir, but so can an agnostic. And even a 
Sicilian brigand has been found shot dead after throat-cutting 
with his missal marked at the page ‘De Preparatione pro 
Bonam Mortem’ . . . And even an atheist or a Moslem has 
been known to die manfully.” 

What Ledgar hated more even than the intellectual flip- 
pancy of Christian people, though he himself was afraid to face 
stern facts and stern realities with his intellect, was the ar- 
rogance of Christian people, which seemed alwaj^s armed with 
the supercilious, truculent menace, “We are the people. No 


328 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

one else is right; no one else knows what is true. Come into 
our ark, or be damned to you.” 

'‘H’m,” grunted Ledgar, “I should have thought she might 
have done better than that.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Emmeline, opening her eyes. “I 
should call her a very lucky girl.” 

Curiously enough, the same subject was broached at Ab’s 
and Sarah’s. Sarah was of quite a different nature from Em- 
meline; a florid young person, who had given young Ah a 
hand almost as large and red as his own, and in marrying him 
had simply turned her activities from the management of flow- 
ers and feathers to the managing of a husband. No slum- 
mocking through life for her as for Emmeline, who believed in 
being happy in a happy-go-lucky way. Sarah liked pulling 
strings and wearing trousers. She had her own notions of 
etiquette and the correct thing; generally they were quite 
wrong; but such as they were, she insisted on them with 
Median exactitude. While Emmeline looked up to Fred, Ab 
looked up to Sarah. Sarah was so capable, so smart, so efficient. 
The oil painting in the drawing-room was her work. If any- 
one couldn’t see at once that they were horses, well . . . She 
had made the cozy corner out of sugar crates. Did Ledgar 
notice the table ornament? Rice and sealing-wax; Sarah’s idea 
and work. She was the ideal wife for the ideal shop-walker. 
Armed with a work on etiquette, by “A Member of the Aris- 
tocracy,” she had given Ab lessons in deportment; he knew 
how to treat a Duchess and how to behave to a fisherman’s 
wife buying safety pins. You had to be the essence of limp 
deference and gentility with the one; with the other, mildly 
jocular and very much off-hand. Having graciously allowed 
Ab to put her through her paces, and having been put through 
his own by Sarah, Ab and Sarah — with the implied suggestion 
“You see how happy and successful we are” — ^joined in the 
inquiry, “And when are you going to follow our example, 
Ledgar?” 

At the mention of Winnie’s name, Sarah said that she 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 329 

thought her very pretty indeed, and very chic. The chic was 
pronounced as if it were a young hen. Sarah had left four 
cards recently on the Campions, two for Ah and herself, each 
for Mrs. Campion and Winnie. She believed in doing the 
correct thing . . . Mrs. Campion seemed to think it rather 
a joke, but then, of course, she could not be expected to know. 
Ab did not know whether there was really anything between 
Winnie and Ted Holderness. They were playing tennis to- 
gether during the summer, and Ted used to take her home. 
Ab thought she liked him. He was keen enough . . . When 
Ledgar took his leave, there seemed a momentary tension; Ab 
and Sarah exchanged dubious glances. You cannot very well 
pull out a book^f etiquette when speeding a parting guest. 
How should you treat a brother at the conclusion of a first 
visit? With a nervous “hem,” the kind of noise a chick might 
make on laying a very tiny egg, Sarah presented Ledgar with 
two cards from a mother-of-pearl case. She pointed out “At 
Home, Third Thursdays,” but explained that, of course, Led- 
gar would be welcome at any time. It was only in case he 
should happen to forget their address . . . 

Well, they seemed happy. At least they had their ideals 
and the will to do what was correct. Mrs. Potter, Sarah’s 
mother, was a quite impossible woman ; five or six Sarahs rolled 
into one; a perfect J anitscharenmusik or 1812 Overture of 
loudness. Ledgar wondered how far she interfered with do- 
mestic happiness ... At all events, there would be no harm 
in going to see Winnie. 

He thought, on his way, how very simple it would be if he 
proposed to Mary Beltinge. No difficulty there about the 
absolute correctness of his wife’s behavior; no impossible rela- 
tives; she had money of her own, and during a recent visit 
to town had actually been presented. Whereas if he married 
Winnie he would be linking himself back to his own past and 
his own relations. Kinsfolk were a frightful nuisance, in 
any case. Supposing Sarah were to call, and a well-trained 
maid or page-boy said peremptorily without inquiry, “Not 


330 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

at home”? Or poor old Emmeline — ^whose care was all for 
husband and for children, and who dressed in the most hap- 
hazard fashion — supposing she, dragging her two grimy little 
boys with her, were ordered round to the tradesman's en- 
trance? Or what would happen if his father insisted on a 
fortnight’s visit to town? They might, of course, play tid- 
dly-winks. 

Something deterred him from going at once to Beltinge. 
Why was he so many people? And why did he not fall hotly, 
madly in love, like Fred, like Ah? Everything was so simple 
then. You seemed to fall into an ecstatic trance — Helen’s 
beauty in a brow of Egypt — and, presto, the whole affair ar- 
ranged itself; you woke up to find yourself married, in a 
home of your own, with a lifetime before you in which to be 
glad or sorry. He saw the wisdom of the community in hav- 
ing no nonsense about marriage exchanges such as had been 
suggested by Tidmarsh. Once in, society took care that there 
should be no nonsense about getting out again. 

Mrs. Campion was in their small parlor, which bore now 
in its place of honor a crayon portrait of the late Mr. Campion 
standing by a bathing machine. If the word were not subject to 
abuse, she might have been described as an adventuress; at all 
events she was always sallying forth on adventure. She had 
just returned from a visit to a neighboring town; and was clad 
(old as she was, she always contrived to “retain youthful gay- 
ety”) in a cerulean blue hat and a white coat. It was her 
standing grievance that Winnie would not consent to be dressed 
after her ideas. As usual, she had had exciting experiences on 
her journey; she had overshot the station; the communication 
cord would not work; when she signaled to a porter on the 
platform he mistook her intentions and kissed his hand. A 
parcel overlooked in her hurry at last to alight made an ex- 
cursion of its own. It contained cheese and a pork pie. 
Ledgar, looking round anxiously for signs of Winnie, ten- 
dered her one of Perrin’s office jokes. “Why don’t Jews like 
pork?” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 331 

“But they do,” said Mrs. Campion. “I knew a Jew ” 

“But they’re not supposed to. Because, you see, it gives them 
tricky noses. 

Mrs. Campion did not see. When he explained that it 
was a pun on the name of a disease, Mrs. Campion launched 
into a long narrative about some recent crops of warts, which 
she had cured by rubbing them with raw meat and burying 
it. As the meat decayed, the warts disappeared. One or two 
were left, which she exhibited. 

At all events, thought Ledgar — and reproached himself 
with the thought — Mrs. Campion cannot live forever. And 
then Winnie came in. 

She looked prettier, fresher than ever, and seemed just 
as curiously unapproachable. Not exactly that; she was cer- 
tainly very pleased to see him, and very amiable and jolly — 
still . . . Something seemed to stand between the two and 
childhood. Winnie had made friends lately with a French 
lady living in Wind Hill; her father, a Comte de Bellegarde, 
had come over — with the Conquerer, was it, Winnie? 

“No, no, grandma. With King Louis Philippe. He came 
to England as Mr. Smith, you know, Ledgar; they stayed 
at the Bridge Inn at Newhaven. Mademoiselle told me about 
it. They reached England early in the morning, and had 
breakfast before going up to London. Mademoiselle has been 
teaching me French and water-color painting; she’s very kind. 
Perhaps, some day, I’m going for a holiday to France with 
her.” 

“Show Ledgar your paintings, my dear.” With some demur 
a portfolio was produced; it contained slight but quite pretty 
sketches of small boats canted over at sunset, lichen-covered 
cottages, the Abbey ruins, cattle drinking, and similar local 
scenes. 

“And now sing your French song, my dear. Winnie’s be- 
come quite — what is it. Win? That word you taught me the 
other day? Cafs au laitf She’s become quite cafe au lait 
since you saw her last.” 


332 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

'"Comme il fauf, I suppose you mean, grandma. There, the 
kettle’s ready.” 

“Never mind the kettle, my dear. We want to hear your 
song.” 

She sat down at last at the piano. It was a delightful little 
song about love, and fountains, and flowers. One imagined 
a setting of green leaves, of marble statues, of plashing water, 
of silk-clad gallants and their dames. Ledgar was carried 
away by it into old France; the France of Watteau, of Greuze, 
.of Fragonard; the France of Marie Antoinette, of the Rohans, 
of the Trianon and St. Cloud. 

But she would not sing it again. ^ 

“Why not, Winnie? You sang it twice for Ted Holder- 
ness. You remember him, Ledgar? He and his sister were 
here the other night.” 

“Oh, was he indeed !” 

But Winnie would not sing again. She had not a strong 
voice; but it was pure and sweet. Ledgar wanted an encore. 
“Why not, Winnie?” he pleaded. 

“Because tea’s ready.” 

They had the old brown teapot, the old patchwork cozy, 
used in Mr. Campion’s day. No need to cover up the old 
gentleman now to prevent his talking too much; he was cov- 
ered up effectually and for good. Winnie was very sweet and 
very fresh and very charming; really, thought Ledgar, hold- 
ing her up to a quite hypercritical standard — really quite good 
form. But how would she bear the years? Was there even 
the remotest possibility of a second Mrs. Campion? And 
how long before Mrs. Campion was covered up, with her mis- 
placed h’s, her rough country speech, her jokes and stories 
scarcely adapted to drawing-room consumption. 

They went in the evening to the pier. Mrs. Campion de- 
clined to go. Ledgar was suspicious of this; suspicious of the 
way in which she had referred to Holderness’s visit and the 
encore; altogether, he was nervous and uncomfortable. He 
wished Mrs. Campion had not said that Winnie would be so 


The Rise of Ledgar^ Dunstan 333 

“chough” if she were engaged. And, angry with himself, he 
shook himself as if to shake off the disquieting mood ; supposing 
Mrs. Campion would like him to marry Winnie. Supposing 
Winnie would like to marry him. Why not? They had been 
playmates, sweethearts always; if anyone had the right to 
expect marriage, who but she? 

The pier, squat and black on long black spidery legs, stood 
in the wet sands and pools of low tide. As children they 
had caught the aniline colors of the tar, floating on the surface 
of these pools, in their toy buckets. Part of the pier was 
inclosed with sail-cloth, which flapped in a stifiish breeze; and 
here the band was playing. The season was practically over; 
there were very few people. Ledgar paid for seats and pro- 
grams; they listened to light French music, and the Henry the 
Eighth dances. Once, in the semi-darkness, Ledgar tried to 
take Winnie’s hand, but she drew it back. He was nettled. 
Why should she let him do all the wooing? He was quite cer- 
tain Mrs. Campion had not needed much encouragement. The 
pride with which she had reported the envy of the other girls 
when “Hannah had a beau at last” told him that. 

They walked back along the sea-front, which shone after a 
slight fall of rain. Winnie did most of the talking. She 
chatted quite pleasantly, about commonplace affairs. Ledgar 
walked on in moody silence. How simple if he were only 
head-over-heels in love with her! But once she said someone 
was “a great swell now,” some old school playmate, the son 
of Mr. Cairncross the solicitor. He thought, “Mary Beltinge 
would never call a solicitor’s son a great swell.” He was 
not quite sure that Mary Beltinge would have said “swell” at 
all. It was pretty enough on Winnie’s lips, still . . . Oh, 
confound all that. She was Winnie; her light footsteps on 
the cobbles when they left the esplanade itself sounded in his 
heart in some odd fashion as the footsteps of Catriona on the 
Dutch quays sounded in the heart of David Balfour. He 
wished he knew how it felt to be in love. 

Remembering Tidmarsh, in his embarrassment, he took his 


334 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

pipe from his pocket, and shielded a match from the wind. 
Winnie stopped; she seemed on the point of some comment, 
but refrained from making any. This was encouraging. A 
girl longing for engagement would be careful not to resent 
a slight breach of the conventions. He puffed in silence, while 
she still chatted. There were no people about now. By and by 
he stopped again, and, with his pipe still between his lips, 
blurted out, “Consider yourself engaged.” 

He felt an awful fool immediately. The words might have 
come well enough from Tidmarsh, addressed to Maud; here 
somehow they fell flat. He wished he had chosen some other 
way. 

The most appalling thing was that Winnie took no notice; 
seemed, indeed, not to have heard, and went on chatting. He 
wanted to say, “Look here, Winnie,” or even “Shut up, Win- 
nie; can’t you see I want you to marry me?” Instead, he 
coughed, grew red, puffed harder and repeated so loudly and 
with such emphasis that there could be no mistake, “Consider 
yourself engaged.” 

Winnie did certainly hear at last. He knew, without see- 
ing, that her face must have colored. 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Ledgar. Do you — 
is that meant for a proposal?” 

“Of course.” What a fool he felt! His mouth was as 
dry as a limekiln. He did an amazing thing, which he could 
never think of afterwards without a shudder of consternation 
and horror. Taking his pipe from his mouth, he deliberately 
spat on the cobbles. 

Winnie gave no sign of noticing this. They had come to 
the Campions’ door. Without a word of reply or explanation, 
Winnie held out her hand. 

Ledgar took it, in a grip so hard that she could not repress 
a cry that brought an answering exclamation, of some amuse- 
ment, from Mrs. Campion. 

Yet the grip meant that he felt he was losing his hold of 
her and wanted to get it back. He had blundered fearfully; 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 335 

made an awful hash of things. Why couldn’t she meet him 
half way and make it easy? 

“Well, aren’t you going to give me an answer, Winnie?” 
Old Mrs. Campion was chuckling audibly. Ledgar knew 
that he was behaving like a cad ; still, the thing was done. 

“I’m very sorry, Ledgar. It’s — it’s of course very kind 

of you.” 

“But — but you must, Winnie! Why not?” 

She stood in the passage and the light of the oil-lamp above 
the open door was on her face. Her eyes were inscrutable. 

“Why not, Winnie? Is there anyone else? Because you 
and I ” 

“I know,” she said. “But you see I can’t, because — be- 
cause ” 

“Well?” he asked, impatiently. 

“Edward Holderness asked me last Saturday, and I ac- 
cepted him. I was going to tell you this afternoon. Grandma, 
when Ledgar came.” 

“But Winnie!” he almost cried. He checked his impulse 
to say “the son of a damned provincial tailor.” There was the 
fact; she had accepted Holderness. “But, Winnie — you and 
I ” 

“You are too late — a week, Ledgar. . . . And I have not 
seen or heard from you for nearly a year.” 

“Because you were away when I was at Came Bay last,” 
he was going to say. But what was the use? Her eyes were 
still inscrutable; her lips, parted a little, and showing the per- 
fect little teeth, inscrutable. 

He stood silent for a few seconds. Then he raised his hat; 
and, putting his pipe into his mouth again, lit it before walking 
homewards. 


CHAPTER XI 


L EDGAR let himself in with his latchkey. Mr. Dunstan 
had gone up to bed ; the gilt-faced clock between the 
alabaster camels showed that it was after ten o’clock. 
Mr. Dunstan, with great reluctance, was beginning to allow 
him some license; he only called out now from the landing, 
“Is that you, Ledgar? You’re very late. Don’t forget to 
lock the door and turn the lamps out carefully.” The parental 
instinct was so strong in him that he still treated even his elder 
children as helpless imbeciles. 

Supper had been left out on the round table; cold sausage 
and rice with stewed apples. Ledgar took a spoonful of the 
apple, and then pushed his plate away. He flung himself down 
in an armchair before the dying fire. 

Winnie engaged ! Winnie. . . . Their lives had been linked 
since they were little more than babies. By her own act she 
seemed to have blotted out their childhood. It was incredible, 
impossible. His heart had given a great leap when the hint 
about Holderness had suggested this possibility. But even then 
it did not seem a possibility. He was not passionately in love; 
he was content to drift on indefinitely. Sometimes in London 
— waking in the loneliness of night — he had thought of her, 
and had wondered whether some such thing might ever hap- 
pen. Of course it could not. Amazing self-conceit assured 
him that she could never listen to any proposal from other 
lips than his. If he proposed, well and good. If not, she 
would wait indefinitely, and hope. 

And now it had come. Winnie had developed an unex- 
pected mind, an unrevealed will of her own, apart from his 
influence and suggestion. He did not seem anxious to have 
her; very well; she would marry someone else. It might be 
common sense ; it was a fearful blow to self-esteem. How, with 

336 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 337 

the memories of their childhood, could she be content to marry 
someone else? 

He lit his pipe again; the clock struck eleven. All that 
he had lost, or was losing, came before him. Why, he had 
been mad! Everything would have been as simple as pos- 
sible. Mrs. Campion could not live very long; Winnie had 
no brothers or sisters to intrude upon their happiness with 
perpetual reminder of her origin. Her origin! What did it 
matter? Her very name would be changed by their marriage. 

“On such and such a date, at Came Parish Church, by the 
Reverend Percy Briggs, M.A., Vicar” (why, the Campions 
were even church people; the difficulty of a chapel marriage 
was overcome), “Ledgar, eldest son of James Dunstan, of 
Came Bay, to Winifred, daughter of the late Richard Cam- 
pion, also of Came Bay.” 

Simplicity itself! He had often constructed such a notice. 
But side by side with it, he had placed another. “On such and 
such a date, at St. Augustine’s, Beltinge, by the Rev. Cecil 
Mordaunt, M.A., Vicar, assisted by the Rev. Arthur Beltinge, 
M.A., cousin of the bride, Ledgar, eldest son of James Dun- 
stan, Esquire, of Came Bay, to Mary, only daughter of the 
late Reginald Beltinge, Esquire, C.B., and the Honorabk Mrs. 
Beltinge; and granddaughter of Mrs. Beltinge of Beltinge.” 

That very evening — only a few hours back — this had crossed 
his mind. And now it was as far beyond the range of possi- 
bility as marriage with — the Queen of Sheba, or Mrs. Boy. 
Propose to Mary Beltinge! Marry Mary Beltinge! 

He would go to Winnie, coax her, persuade her, order her, 
to give up Holderness and marry him. He would appeal to 
their memories of childhood. She should marry him ; she must. 
William the Conqueror, he had read, thrashed and tamed his 
bride. Richard Cceur de Lion, in the very church, tore his 
from a rival’s arms. Ledgar’s power of visualization sum- 
moned up such a scene; the gray old walls of Came Church, 
the glowing windows, bronzes, dark hatchments; Winnie and 
Holderness before the jovial old vicar at the altar — and he 


338 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

Striding in, sitting black-visaged in his pew. “If any man can 
show any just cause why they may npt lawfully be joined to- 
gether, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his 
peace.” 

“I! I forbid the marriage! Because me, and none other, 
you love in the sight of God.” 

Very fine. Very dramatic. A little theatrical, perhaps. . . . 
Yes, but an uncomfortable feeling confronted him that Winnie 
really had a mind and will; that she might not submit tamely 
to his dictation and go home with him. Those inscrutable eyes 
would speak plainly enough then, if her lips did not. “No, 
you were too late — a week. ... It would not be fair to 
Edward now.” As inflexible, perhaps in a sense as just, as 
those scriptural passages, ''Now is the accepted time; now is 
the day of salvation!* "Today, if ye will hear His voice, 
harden not your hearts!* 

He rose from his chair, and raked together the fire. Twelve 
o’clock. Lighting another pipe, he went into the kitchen. On 
the top shelf of the larder was a bottle marked in red ink 
and large letters : 

Poison. Not To Be Taken Internally 

It was brandy, kept by his father for medicinal purposes. 
He drank a quarter of the contents. Coming back, he raked 
together the embers of the fire. “It’s cursedly cruel,” he mut- 
tered. Because he saw that every week now, every day, would 
widen the breach between them. Holderness would bind himself 
to Winnie with each kiss, each gift, each visit. They would 
go on the pier together, to theaters together, on picnics to- 
gether. Mrs. Campion, who had smiled on him as a potential 
husband, would smile on the newcomer. Piece by piece, the 
contents of their home would be brought together. Every scrap 
of linen, every chair, every bit of china bought for furniture 
would be another argument why their engagement should be 
indissoluble. It would not be fair now to Edward. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 339 

He clenched his fist, and, pipe still between his teeth, hissed 
out an argument to the Creator. A challenge, rather, a ques- 
tion, a curse bitter as those he had heard from maddened lips 
at Canford Lodge. “God, if You’re there, why do you make 
a world like this? I never asked to be born. You trap me in 
your blasted universe; give me this nature; then bring all this 
suffering upon me. Why can’t you make things simple ? Why 
can’t you make a boy fall head over heels in love like others? 
Give him common sense? Give him resolution? Look at this 
trap we’re in. He loves her; I love her — always have loved 
her, and we were little playmates together. She doesn’t love 
him. She likes him; she may grow to love him . . . But not 
in the same way,” he said fiercely. “It’ll never be the same 
thing . . . Oh, curse You, curse You, curse You and Your 
universe!” 

“Ledgar,” came Mr. Dunstan’s voice from above, “what 
a noise you’re making! Why don’t you go to bed? It must 
be nearly one o’clock.” 

“All right, father.” 

“Don’t forget the lamps and the front door.” 

“All right.” 

“Ledgar!” 

“Yes?” 

“Mind you put the chain up on the front door.” 

“Yes, yes.” 

He went up to bed at last. Half the night he lay awake 
in misery; woke with a feeling of oppression which was incom- 
prehensible until thought cleared; then the bright sunshine 
of the day was darkened. 

He went up to town three days later, without seeing Win- 
nie again; without seeing Mary Beltinge. Mrs. Folley was 
suffering from one of her periodic heart attacks. She con- 
trived to cook a meal on his arrival; charred steak, and pota- 
toes fried almost to cinders. One of the lodgers told him 
that during his absence — no doubt while the heart attack was 
in gestation — she had been found wandering in the corridors 


340 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

and pouncing out upon the unwary in semi-darkness with the 
ominous question, “Are you prepared to die?” 

Ledgar went to an old desk brought from the prophet’s 
chamber at the Crescent, and rummaged among its contents. 
He found a scrap of paper, crumpled and flung into the gut- 
ter long ago — and then recovered. 

A few weeks after Winnie Campion’s engagement, Ledgar 
received a letter from the Medical Superintendent at Canford 
Lodge informing him of Mr. Muttleboy’s death. He went 
down immediately and found his uncle on the slab in the mor- 
tuary, stripped, and with a label bearing his name tied by 
string to his big toe. A young man with a sharp nose and 
ribs sticking out like the hoops of a barrel lay on one side 
of him; on the other, an elderly man, with patches of red 
still on his expressionless, wooden-looking face, which was al- 
most covered with yellow hair. Of course. Aunt Eliza lay 
under her granite waiting to receive her husband; in death he 
had a last home consonant with the faded glories of the Cres- 
cent. A charge-attendant took Ledgar to a row of lockers, 
and turned the key in one containing a few treasures, spindrift 
and wreckage of a life; papers and letters, his presentation 
watch, a ring given him by Aunt Eliza, boxes of dominoes and 
ludo; a pack of cards, and a false nose he appeared to have 
worn at Christmas. These were handed over. The chaplain 
had been with Mr. Muttleboy at the end; perhaps Mr. Dun- 
stan would like to see him? . . . He shook hands three or 
four times with an old acquaintance, who asked after his wife 
and children, and was distressed to hear that he had none; 
then took a seat in a small room and waited. 

The chaplain entered at last; a young man, tall and hold- 
ing himself very erect. His military bearing prejudiced Ledgar 
at first sight; he had his own conception of the prison and 
asylum chaplain. But at sight of him the new arrival stopped, 
started, and exclaimed: 

“By Jove! It’s Ledgar.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 341 

“Gordon ! Why, I thought you were in the Gunners.’^ 

“So I was. I chucked it the end of last year. Never ex- 
pected to find me a parson, I bet? Well, nor did I. I say, 
have you ever been converted ? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon” — 
Gordon flushed — “Fm not asking you an impertinent question. 
I’m talking about myself. Perhaps you heard I was down 
with enteric last year? Pretty bad; they thought I was going 
to peg out. The rotten drainage, I expect ... I had a 
fairly long convalescence; it wasn’t half bad, flowers, and 
grapes, and a ripping little nurse to look after me. I think I 
caught it from her. Conversion, I mean. I didn’t get it badly ; 
only a mild case; still, I fancy I got it. Funny sort of feel- 
ing; I can’t explain it at all. Only afterwards you look dif- 
ferently at things. At first I wanted to keep gassing about 
it; and the other convalescents had to chuck things at me and 
sit on me to keep me quiet. But I used to think a lot, espe- 
cially at night. We were lying out in the open then, on a 
verandah in the hospital. It was rather jolly; heaps better 
than being indoors. There were about a dozen beds, all in 
a row. I had a cheerful young beggar on one side of me who 
used to drive me nearly raving about all the jolly things out- 
side; he’d go over a sort of catalogue; I could hear him mut- 
tering, ‘Roast pork and apple sauce; plum pudding and mince 
pies; goose; lobster mayonnaise; steak and kidney pudding 
with oysters’ (this seemed to be a favorite with him; he said 
it several times, and always smacked his lips over it), ‘port, 
sherry, champagne, Benedictine, cherry brandy, cigars and 
cigarettes, Turkish coffee — ever tried the coffee at Manoni’s, 
Bel tinge ?’ 

“ ‘Oh, shut up,’ I used to say. 

“‘Stalls at the Olympic. Hansom, sir? Pretty girls, dia- 
monds, dances — claret cup — — ’ 

“ ‘Oh, do shut up.’ 

“And then they’d bring me out my soda and milk or beef- 
tea; and if I didn’t look slippy the chap on the other side 
might collar that. He was religious; always singing hymns 


342 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

and holding open-air services to himself. It was like being 
between the world, flesh and devil, and — and the other thing, 
you know. We lay out there all day and all night. It was 
pretty dark at night; just a couple of dim electric lamps, and 
the night watchman’s lantern. He was a very decent young 
fellow, with red hair; he sat at a table, with a clock and a 
book. Every now and then he had to get up and peg some 
kind of automatic machine that let them know he’d been awake 
all night. We got quite chummy. Sometimes, when all the 
other patients were asleep, he’d put a pipe on, and make me a 
cigarette, and Fd sit on the edge of my bed and smoke it. 
Once or twice I kept my eye on the clock so that he could 
have forty winks. It was awfully weird out there, with the 
dim light, and the fellows all sleeping, and the clock tick, 
tick, ticking. One of the patients must have had something 
on his conscience in his past life; he’d been in India and 
Egypt; I heard him cry out once in his sleep, ‘I didn’t kill 
him! It’s a lie; I swear it’s a lie; I didn’t kill him.’ 

*‘I saw all the sunsets and all the sunrises. Queer to see 
the trees grow dim, and get black, and almost disappear, and 
then come out again. I never saw such colors as we had in 
some of the skies. Gold, silver, purple, crimson, orange. 
And the shapes. Clouds, I mean ; like mountains covered with 
snow; and then like heathery islands in blue seas; or blue 
islands in heathery seas; and sometimes the seas were gold, 
and sometimes the islands were gold. Forests, too . . . I’m 
no good at descriptions. I can’t preach for nuts. Every now 
and then another man would come round swinging his lantern. 
The rain and the wind blew in on us ; sometimes it was bitter 
cold; but we were all right under our blankets. Of course 
they couldn’t keep any pictures on the walls, but there were 
some inside in the hospital; Nelson and his mother, Welling- 
ton and his French schoolmaster — we had them in our nursery 
at Beltinge. Well, you know, all that sort of thing makes a 
fellow think . . . Ever thought about the soul at all, Ledgar ? 
Whether we’ve got one, I mean, and what it’s like? I’m not 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 343 

trying to have you. If ever I find myself starting shop I al- 
ways say to myself, ‘Chuck it, Gordon, my boy. If you are a 
blooming parson, you might remember you were once a gentle- 
man. 

Gordon’s eyes refuted the accusation against his cloth. Led- 
gar was even more surprised than at seeing him in clerical 
collar, waistcoat, and soft hat, to notice how little the change 
had affected him. He was still the same Gordon; and would 
quite obviously have made no bones about routing his Bishop 
out of a library in rain or snow to show him round the stables, 
if he thought his duty lay in that direction. 

“I used rather to look down on parsons, you know,” Gor- 
don went on; “I don’t now. I think it’s a damned sight 
harder — great deal harder, I mean — for one to be a gentle- 
man or even a decent chap at all. You know the old yarn 
about the humorist who couldn’t ask people to pass the potatoes 
without their roaring with laughter? Well, very often what 
you say isn’t taken seriously at all, because of your cloth. 
People think, ‘Of course, he’s bound to say that.’ If you don’t 
say exactly what they expect you to say, they either exclaim 
‘How odd!’ or else jump on you. It must be simply awful 
too for a nervous man. People are always watching for the 
clerical twang; I’ve noticed that when I’ve been traveling. 
It almost makes you drop into it.” 

“That’s very often their own fault,” said Ledgar. “Only 
the other day I was in a carriage with a lot of them coming 
from some conference. They didn’t talk like normal human 
beings. It was like a cage of very pious parrots imitating hu- 
man speech.” 

“I know,” said Gordon. “It’s positively sickening. Our 
Vicar now — he’s just like some old lady with her mouth full 
of pins. And of course, we are more or less old ladies. We’re 
like so many Charley’s Aunts; if there’s any fun going on, 
we’re kept behind the screen, and have to ask, ‘What was that 
one?’ ” 

Ledgar quoted Rostand; the sentinel ordered to play a 


344 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

lively tune if a woman drew near, a solemn one for a man — 
and playing both at the entry of a monk. 

“Well ... I was talking about the soul,’’ said Gordon. 
“One night I saw my night watchman was reading a book, 
as usual, and I asked him what it was. It was some fusty 
old dissertation on the nature of the soul and immortality. He 
used to read that one night, and the next The Pink 'Un, and 
the Pelican; took them in turns, just to keep his mental balance. 
Now have you any notion what the soul’s like? The nearest 
I can get is that it’s like a new watch given to a boy. If 
he keeps it in order, dusts it, doesn’t knock it about, regulates 
it, gets it oiled and cleaned properly, it’ll be jolly useful to 
him and will last forever. When he’s about among other peo- 
ple, he’ll always have his watch to help him keep his ap- 
pointments. But if he’s going to chip the case about to see 
what metal it’s made of ; and tear it open to keep seeing the 
wheels go round, and begin taking bits of it to pieces to see 
how it works, it won’t work satisfactorily at all . . . And 
if he keeps on pulling it to pieces and taking out the screws 
that held it together (principles, you know), one day there’ll 
be a terrific bang and whirr, and the spring’ll fly out, and 
everything will bust up; and then he won’t have any watch 
left.” 

“I suppose the one who pulls it all to pieces will be Anti- 
Christ,” said Ledgar, reflectively. 

“Eh? Who’s he? Oh, I know, of course ... I don’t 
believe in him, though. I think there’s a jolly lot of tommy- 
rot in the Bible. My theory about Revelations is that St. John 
had to live on crabs and lobsters and other kinds of shellfish 
at Patmos, and got chronic indigestion. I trotted that out in a 
sermon, and there was the dickens to pay about it.” 

“I thought you were chaplain here, though?” said Ledgar. 

“So I am. But I’m curate down in the village as well. It 
all came out of that time in hospital. Lying there thinking 
about things, it seemed to me, ‘I’m jolly keen on the army and 
all that; but I wonder if I’m really doing the best I can with 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 345 

my life?’ You see everyone there was being useful. There 
were the maids scrubbing the wards, awfully busy; the nurses 
always at it, and not pleasant work for girls to do, you know; 
and the doctors — all helping people. While I was simply going 
on and off parade, going to parties and picnics, dealing out 
C.B.’s like the King himself — month after month. Always 
getting ready for a scrap that never came off. A little while 
ago lots of our chaps said there was going to be a big Euro- 
pean bust-up . . . Do you think so?” 

“I don’t know. Jelf, the man I lived with, thought there 
would be.” 

“Some of them were quite certain about it; said it was 
a known fact that across the water they had a toast ‘To the 
Day,’ which meant when they would smash up England. 1 
thought it’s not much good waiting for the off-chance. If it 
does come, I know what I know — and what I know I knew a 
good many months ago — and in any case I can always enlist 
and do my bit. But if I went in for the Church, I might do 
some good with my life ... I like it. The Vicar is really 
a dear old chap; we’ve a few gentlefolk: but most of them 
are poor people. My sermons just about touch their level. I 
talk to them, same as I’d talk to anyone else. I’ve got into 
two or three awful rows with the Vicar and some of the 
richer people, but the others seem to like it. I tell ’em not 
to bother their heads too much with thinking, but just to do 
their bit as Christ did His — but His was a bigger bit than theirs 
— a little more work than they need do for their wages; not 
to mind looking after a neighbor’s baby (the women, of course) ; 
to carry a bag for any old party without wanting a tip; to 
ask their friends in to tea now and then; to teach their boys 
to fight and play cricket — you know. And above all, not to 
think other people. Dissenters or even Atheists, are going to 
perdition. Because, if they do, they’ll go there themselves. 
I tell them God will forgive anyone but the slacker. The 
slacker who pretends that he’s doing his bit is the one person 
God can’t forgive. If I believed in Anti-Christ, I should say 


346 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

he was the complete slacker . . . Oh, I say, I got into awful 
hot water the other day about foreign missions. I said most 
of them were simply too damned silly for words. So they are. 
Of course, I didn’t exactly put it in that way. But we send 
out a lot of half educated young men and women without the 
least knowledge of the beliefs of the people they’ll encounter — I 
mean without the least intelligent knowledge and understand- 
ing — and they stuff Christianity down their throats just as 
people cram prize geese. Why, sometimes these people held 
their faiths when Christianity was in its cradle. Yet all that 
their fathers have taught them is chucked overboard as super- 
stitious rubbish. It’s not. It’s just as sensible in its way 
as Christianity. You want to graft on to a Codling your 
‘Tampling’ or your Golden Pippin; well, they either try to 
pull their tree down altogether or tell them it’s a Crab and 
no use. I did say I’d sometimes thought I’d like to eat a 
little missionary. They held a male mothers’ meeting over 
me; some of them almost wept. They said I’d pained them 
inexpressibly. I bet they ate just as much breakfast the next 
morning, for all that. 

“This Asylum work is a sort of make -weight, don’t you 
know. I like it. I feel I’m in my right place in a lunatic 
asylum, perhaps. There’s not much screw and there’s a fair 
amount of work; between you and me the Asylum people are 
most frightfully stingy to their chaplains. Oh, I say, there 
was a funny thing the other day. I went into one of the 
wards, and an attendant got up to open the door; but he sat 
down again, and I heard him say to another man, ‘Oh, it’s only 
the bloody parson.’ When I was going out, he did condescend 
to get up. ‘Please don’t trouble,’ I said, ‘it’s only the bloody 
parson.’ Of course, I didn’t report him. Oh, I was going 
to say, I like all these queer old remnants of humanity. They’re 
like the rubbish and wreckage you find on the beach after a 
big storm. Life’s knocked them about so much; and a lot 
of them weren’t much good even when they were launched. 
You should see our congregation. Men and women with odd 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 347 

legs, broken noses, no legs, no noses, deaf people, dumb people, 
one-armed people, people with harelips, club-feet, birthmarks, 
goiters. A job lot. One tries to find out something about 
them, and there are all sorts of odd ways in which you can 
make them a bit happier. Take a Scotsman living in some 
out-of-the-way part of the Grampians, say, a copy of his local 
paper. Give a broken-down jockey a picture of an old race- 
horse to stick up over his bed. . . . There’s a Nonconformist 
Chaplain and a Roman Catholic; both decent sorts. But 
nearly all lunatics belong to the Church of England.” 

“But Uncle Ab was a Nonconformist. How was it you 
saw him, Gordon?” 

“Oh, yes; I was jabbering on, and I quite forgot what you 
came about. I’d got quite chummy with him, and Mr. Broad- 
bent happened to be away for a day or two. People aren’t 
very particular when they are dying. He was a dear, good, 
simple old soul, your uncle. I don’t often pray with people, 
but I started to with him — and it was just like putting a penny 
in a slot; I’d no sooner started than he was off on his own 
account. I should think he must have been a good hand at it 
once.” 

“Oh, he used to lead in prayer a good deal at the chapel.” 

“Well, he prayed for me, and the doctors, and the attend- 
ants, and he prayed that the Medical Superintendent might 
experience a change of heart which would make him see the 
stupidity of thinking there was nothing inside a man but his 
machinery. And then he prayed for the other patients, and 
prayed (because he seemed to get over the delusion about his 
wife at the end) that he might soon meet her again. And 
then he turned round, with a sort of wink at me, and said, 
‘She’ll be awfully angry with me for being so late. My wife 
was a holy terror if you broke the rules of the house; and I 
daresay they’re rather perticular in Heaven.’ ” 

Gordon said that he was living in the village, about three- 
quarters of a mile away; he hoped Ledgar would be able to 
come to tea. Near the door Ledgar again stopped to shake 


348 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

hands three times with the mahogany-topped old gentleman, 
and then was intercepted by the man who on his first visit had 
implored him to effect his release. “Sorry to hear about your 
loss, sir. We all respected Mr. Muttleboy very much. He 
came down once to the bottom end and played draughts with 
me. 

“What’s your opinion of lethal chambers, Gordon?” asked 
Ledgar, as they walked down the drive. “For instance, as a 
means of clearing out the bottom end. Here’s a lot of hu- 
man rubbish, some of it very miserable. It’s ordered about; 
it’s no earthly use to anyone; yet, whatever happens, it must 
not be encouraged to die. A man’s so sick of it all that he’d 
do anything to make away with himself — they’ve had several 
attempts here. Supposing he did, the money he costs would 
be saved to his relatives; no one would miss him; he’d be for- 
gotten in a couple of da)^s. It w^ould simply mean that there 
would be one less going in and out, in and out, year after 
year ... I know what I should do. I’d send a couple of 
attendants do^m to the bottom end one fine evening with 
baskets of oranges, nuts, screws of tobacco, cheap ties, and 
Woodbines. For one evening of their lives they should have 
a high old time. Then instead of ‘All Up To Bed,’ the charge 
should call out, ‘All Up To The Lethal Chamber.’ The 
asylum band should play something cheerful; not Chopin or 
Handel. ‘Playing up the feet of the Army,’ they called it in 
Napoleon’s time. By the next morning, the bottom end would 
be swept and garnished, and the whole problem of it settled.” 

“Would it?” asked Gordon. “I’m not so sure about that. 
For one thing, you know what happened when the place was 
swept and garnished in the Bible. No; you haven’t the right 
to do it; the principle of the thing’s involved. Your duty is 
to look after them and keep them out of mischief; whether 
they are any use or not is no business of yours. You can’t 
see underneath. You can’t see what strings and wires there 
are under the surface which may make even these beings of 
some account in the scheme of things . . . There’s my church. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 349 

Oh, I forgot to say I’m expecting Mary this afternoon for 
the week-end.” He looked at his watch. “Jove, I didn’t know 
it was so late. We’d better go straight on to the station. She’ll 
be glad to see you.” 

“If properly cared for could they not be made of some 
use in the existing scheme of things?” wondered Ledgar. 

Mary arrived, and they went back to the village. The High 
Street lay in a hollow of hills covered with pines and firs. 
Here and there blue smoke curled upwards ; the village seemed 
to consist mostly of inns with battered and ancient signs. It 
showed no signs of great prosperity. There was a photog- 
rapher’s, with a frame outside holding photographs so atrocious 
that they seemed to say quite audibly, “You see what you let 
yourself in for if you come here. We warn you.” Under- 
neath was a gruesome notice. “Children executed at half 
prices.” Several small shops displayed uninviting goods. In 
the tiny window of the fishmonger’s languished half a dozen 
herrings and a score of shrimps; you could imagine the appeal, 
“Please don’t buy us. We’re all he has. His ewe lambs, in a 
way.” Some unhappy joints and a pig’s head with glazed, 
sorrowful eyes hung from hooks in the butcher’s. The pig had 
a curiously apologetic look. You fancied it saying to its exe- 
cutioner (as a sixteenth-century old lady did to hers), “I must 
apologize for having such a tough neck.” . . . The draper’s 
shop was more imposing. But most imposing of all, because 
cyclists were the chief customers in the village, was a really 
well-stocked confectioner’s. 

“I got rooms here,” said Gordon, “because it’s so ripping 
when you have tea to be able to come down and spear your 
own cakes. They’re quite nice people, too. Sometimes I go 
down into the shop and help serve; it’s rather amusing to have 
a chat with some of these cycling folk. There’s another lodger 
beside myself. She’s an old lady, getting on for her century ; 
she looks nearly a thousand. But she’s as sharp as needles, and 
awfully good sport. Her people were in quite a good position. 
She’s told me quite a lot about the old days. She saw Boney 


350 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

once at Boulogne; she was held up by highwaymen while going 
to Exeter by coach; she used to know old Queen Charlotte. 
My rooms are upstairs.’* 

They were quite comfortable rooms, well furnished. There 
were some good engravings on the walls; Ledgar noticed par- 
ticularly a set by Frith: a company promoter in his office — 
a great reception at his house — a clergyman and his family con- 
fronted by ruin through their speculation — the promoter in 
the dock. A case contained books, some of them — not very 
many — theological. An American organ stood in one corner. 
On the walls and mantelshelf were plates, dishes and smaller 
pieces of Lowestoft, Chelsea and Meissen ware, and a small 
vase of Crown Derby. 

Mary was obviously pleased to see Ledgar again. “It’s ages 
since I have seen you,” she said. “What do you think of 
Gordon entering the church? I don’t think it’s half so nice 
as having a soldier brother. You don’t know how awfully 
good I have to be now. Oh, here comes tea.” 

“Only the beginning of it,” said Gordon. “You know I 
always dine in the middle of the day now, Ledgar, and make 
tea the principal meal. I always did like nursery teas when 
I was a kid; it’s such a sociable sort of meal, and no greasy 
dishes. At dinner Higgins always used to pester my life out 
trying to make me eat fat.” 

“Gordon told her once he had turned Buddhist — or Brah- 
min was it? — and it was against his religion.” 

“I am almost a vegetarian,” said Gordon. “I don’t think 
it’s possible for anyone to be entirely one. Look at the awful 
things you see in water under the microscope. Caterpillars 
in your cabbage, too ; you can’t help eating one now and then, 
and bang go your principles. If the Creator meant people to 
be out and out vegetarians I don’t fancy he’d have arranged 
things like that.” 

“Vermiform appendices,” muttered Ledgar. He was think- 
ing, “It may be right for some people to be vegetarians. Con- 
science tells them that they ought to be. I suppose Jelf would 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 351 

have said these things are to try their faith; to see -whether 
they are true to their convictions, or wriggle out of them be- 
cause of the microbes and caterpillars. An excuse not to face 
the inconvenience.” 

“What’s that?” asked Gordon. 

“Oh, nothing — I was only thinking.” 

“I say,” continued Gordon, “did you ever see that ripping 
little picture of a small boy who found a caterpillar on his 
plate at dinner? *Oh, Uncle,’ he said, ‘here’s a horrid little 
caterpillar in my cabbage.’ ‘Well, my boy, you needn’t eat 
it unless you like.’ ” 

“There’s another story,” said Mary, “of a child who wasn’t 
quite so prompt. ‘Uncle,’ she said. ‘Yes, my dear?’ ‘Do 
you know you’ve just eaten a caterpillar?’ ” 

“Talking about caterpillars,” said Ledgar, “did I ever tell 
you about the man at Canford Lodge, who used to keep a farm 
of silkworms for their milk? He had to give them up be- 
cause they were so savage. Oh, there’s rather a good picture, 
too, about silkworms. A lady asks her little daughter whether 
she knows the name of the insignificant little worm who by 
its industry provided her with her silk blouses. ‘Oh, I know, 
Mamma. Papa, of course.’ ” 

Gordon roared with laughter. “These lunatics get hold 
of some quite original notions. The silkworm man must be 
the one who trained some fish to live on dry land. He did 
it by gradually reducing the water in their tank. He had just 
got a trout to follow him round the garden, like a dog, when 
unfortunately it fell into a puddle and was drowned . . . 
Come, let’s have tea. I’ll play grace, for a change,” and, sit- 
ting down at the American organ, he played a Benedictus. 

“Now you’re going to have the best tea in all your born 
life, Ledgar, so I hope you’ve a good appetite. Lay on, little 
Mary. If you don’t see what you want, ask for it. And if 
you don’t get it then, go down and take it.” 

Living over a confectioner’s certainly had its advantages. 
They started with tea-cakes, muffins and crumpets, and toasted 


352 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

scones. Then came milk and fancy bread with delicious coun- 
try butter. ^‘Bread and butter before any cake,” insisted Gor- 
don. And then the cakes. Mrs. Campion would at once have 
asked nervously about the bill. Then Gordon went down to 
the shop to spear more cakes, and the other two, laughing, 
followed him. They were all like school children on a holi- 
day. Several cyclists were having tea in the shop; a jolly, 
rosy-cheeked young woman, who laughed at the incursion, was 
serving them. First Gordon, then Ledgar and Mary, fished 
for cakes from the shop window with a long fork used in the 
shop for that purpose. It reminded Ledgar of a group, at the 
Crystal Palace, of natives spearing fish in a glass pond. Two 
small urchins, with noses pressed against the glass, directed 
operations. Gordon invited them in and allowed them to spear 
a cake each for themselves. 

Mary stopped to pet a fluffy half-Persian kitten which a 
small boy, attached to the establishment, was teaching to jump 
over a broomstick. It persistently attempted to crawl under- 
neath, in spite of the fact that each time the broomstick was 
brought down across its back. 

“Stupid thing,” said Mary. “Why don’t you jump? It’s 
much easier really. You only want to make a little effort. 
I do hope Gordon isn’t going to ask those horrid little boys 
upstairs to tea, Ledgar. The last time I came he asked some 
awful old charwoman sort of person from his church to meet 
me.” 

“Charw^oman sort of person, indeed!” said Gordon, who 
had heard the remark. “My dear Mary, she’s one of my 
most distinguished parishioners. Her husband is head gardener 
to the squire.” 

“I’m glad you don’t ask me to have tea with the head 
gardener’s wife at Beltinge, Gordon.” 

“Oh, I suppose at home one has to observe the conventions. 
You know Mary’s developed into a most awful snob, Led- 
gar. Even when she was a little girl she used to argue with 
the grandmater about caste. And now she’s simply unbear- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 353 

able. ‘Bloody Mary’ is much too mild a name for her. If 
she had her way, she’d have all the common people’s heads 
put together and chop them off at a blow, like what’s-his-name 
with the flowers.” 

“Isn’t he awfully horrid, Ledgar?” 

They were just like the boy and girl of the breakfast-table 
at Beltinge, on that stormy day long ago. 

Tea over, Gordon suggested that they might have a little 
music. He had no piano, but there was one in the drawing- 
room, and Mrs. Nash would be only too pleased. He tapped 
at a door in the same passage. Opening it, he disclosed a 
charming old-fashioned room, also filled with rare china; and 
a charming old-fashioned lady to match the room. She was 
sitting at a piano, and was so small that she looked at first 
sight like a little girl. “We’ve come for a little music, Mrs. 
Nash. I hope you don’t mind?” 

“Mind, my dear? I’m simply bored to desperation. How 
do you do?” This to Mary. “I can’t ask you who your fat 
friend is, as Brummel asked about the Regent — because it 
would not only be impolite, but — Mr. Ledgar? Related to 
the Ledgars of Gloucestershire?” 

“Not exactly related” — Ledgar had a vague idea that in 
some distant age that distinguished county family and his own 
might have been allied. Mrs. Nash, in any case, was charmed 
to meet him. “I’m just running over this ‘Friihlingslied’ by 
Merger, and I can’t get it right. You know, my dear” — she 
turned to Mary — “when your wits and your fingers get past 
ninety, you’ll be beginning to find them a bit stiff. Now come 
and take my place.” 

“No, no; we want you to play to us first, please, Mrs. 
Nash.” 

With some demur, Mrs. Nash played three or four pieces 
— really remarkably well. There were Russian dances ar- 
ranged by Timanoff, a Marche Romaine by Gounod, and 
the “Angel’s Song” of Mascheroni. If her fingers were a 
little stiff with age, they v/ere still deft enough to give pleas- 


354 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ure. The tiny, delicate ringed hands had a light touch show- 
ing complete mastery of the instrument in earlier years. Soon 
she spun round on her stool, and the sharp, almost childlike 
face beamed upon them. “Now don’t ask me to sing, my dear,’* 
she said. “I haven’t a repairing lease, and there isn’t a hos- 
pital within five miles — unless I go to Canford Lodge. I’m 
not anxious to see the inside of an asylum. I nearly did once, 
when I was a girl. We were staying at Brighton, and you 
know what pranks the Prince Regent got up to there in the 
Pavilion. He and his friends used to sally out drunk at night ; 
sometimes driving through the country; more often walking; 
and woe betide any young woman they came across. He in- 
sulted a very dear girl who was a friend of mine. ‘I’d like 
to pull the fellow’s wig off,’ I said — you see, I was just a 
young girl myself with high spirits. ‘Bet you a pair of gloves 
you don’t, Jessie,’ said my cousin who was with us. He was 
in the Riflemen, but he’s been dead — Oh, I don’t know how 
many years now. He used to come and see us in his green 
jacket, and fire off his rifle — the Baker, they called it; they 
didn’t use many rifles in those days — in a field near my papa’s 
house. I said, ‘Done,’ and when I next saw the Prince coming 
along laughing and talking with a number of gentlemen I went 
straight up to him, made a curtsey, and tore off his hat and wig. 
He simply couldn’t get his breath. I had to pretend afterwards 
that I had gone silly suddenly, and it was only because of papa, 
I think, that I wasn’t sent to Bedlam. But they brought me 
back again to town at once . . . Poor John was killed soon 
after; I think it must have been at Toulouse, but it’s so long 
ago. We were such chums always ; he used to draw me round 
the garden in a little cart, and sometimes he harnessed his big 
St. Bernard to it. Once I was tipped into the pond. Oh, the 
riflemen used to sing a song when they were marching — how 
did it go now? 

** Colonel Coote Manninghanit he was the man. 

He invented a wonderful plan. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 355 

And raised a corps of riflemen 
To fight for old England^ s glory. 

Something like that, John used to sing it to me, but it’s such 
a long time ago, my dear. . . , There, I said you mustn’t 
make me sing, though to be sure my voice is more like a pencil 
on a slate now. ... You take my place, my dear.” 

Mary sang a Swing Song, which sounded to Ledgar, with 
its ups and downs, and trills, and excursions, very difficult. 
Her voice was full and rich, with a good compass ; it had been 
most carefully trained. And yet somehow Winnie’s voice, 
untrained although sweet, came back to him as he had heard it 
in the little parlor where one could hear the murmur of the 
sea; and it suffered nothing in comparison. He was intensely 
fond of music, although he knew nothing of it technically. 

Mary sang two or three other English songs. 

“Do you know any French songs, Mary?” he asked on sud- 
den impulse. 

She broke into a lively French chansonette, “Les Mousque- 
taires au Couvent.” A Colonel came with his regiment to a 
convent, and insisted in spite of shocked opposition on quarter- 
ing his men there. A year later the regiment marched back to 
Paris, which had lost all knowledge of its whereabouts. The 
drums beat, the colors flew in the breeze, the bugles blared — 
she imitated this refrain with lively pantomime — and with the 
Colonel rode the Mother Superior; and with each soldier 
marched a nun, and with each couple a new little recruit. 

“Really, Mary, you surprise me,” said her brother. 

“Well, it’s the only French song I know. I wouldn’t sing 
it in English. Mildred Vansittart taught me. You should 
hear her sing it. You know Lady Pendergast was French.” 

“I haven’t seen Mildred for an age,” said Gordon. 

“Poor old Mildred!” said Mary. 

“Why poor?” 

“She has such a rotten time with that husband of hers. He’s 
an awful bear. Did I tell you about my going to see her just 


356 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

after her honeymoon ? I suppose it’s rather telling tales out of 
school; still — she really ought to have married Reggie Tempest, 
you kno^v ; but, of course, he’s as poor as a church mouse. And 
Mildred does love pretty things. They went to the Riviera 
for their honeymoon. I called soon after they came back, ex- 
pecting to hear she’d had a ripping time. And there was poor 
old Mildred in her perfectly splendid home, looking awfully 
pretty in a Paris gown and jewels; but I hadn’t been talking to 
her five minutes before she burst out sobbing. ‘Why, what’s 
wrong, old girl?’ I asked. ‘My dear,’ she sobbed, ‘it’s too 
terrible for words. I’ve made an awful mistake. I ought to 
have married Reggie. You don’t know what I’ve been through 
already. Why, all the way to Dover he was reading a sporting 
paper; and he got out at every station to have a drink. In 
France he went into another carriage to play cards with some 
friends he met. Every now and then he’d pop his head in, “All 
right old girl? Cheero.” The awful thing is he’s really fond 
of me in his way and hasn’t the least idea I can’t bear him. He 
simply bores me to death. He grunts at his meals, and I think 
to myself, “Oh, for God’s sake do stop that grunting, you fat 
old pig.” He makes himself pretty popular with people, you 
know; Mrs. Talbot said to me the other day, “Oh, Mildred, 
aren’t you a lucky girl?” “Aren’t I?” I said. “Look at this 
ring he gave me, and these pearls.” That’s the worst part of it, 
having to keep it up. You can’t eat pearls, and pretty frocks, 
and carriages, and horses, and orchids. You can’t think what 
it means to see that same, self-satisfied face, with its ginger 
mustache, and hair parted in the middle, always opposite you 
at meals and on the other pillow at night, and beside you in 
church, and next to you in the carriage. I want to throw 
something at it. I want him to shut his eyes, or make a grim- 
ace, or do anything just to look a little different. He doesn’t 
seem to me to have any soul.’ ” 

“ ‘My dear, how do you know that you have?’ I said. 

“ ‘Oh, you know what I mean. If I’m singing a song, for 
instance, he’ll say, “Let’s have something more lively, old girl. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 357 

Sing — well, I think ‘‘Father’s got his breeches up the spout” 
was the last; a thing he’d heard at one of the halls. He never 
reads a book unless it’s what he calls spicy . . . And to think 
it’s got to go on now until death do us part — twenty, thirty, 
forty years, perhaps. I can’t, Mary, I can’t. Oh, I’m so miser- 
able, old girl,’ she said, and she just cuddled up to me and 
cried her heart out.” 

“Rough luck,” said Gordon. 

“Yes, but she’s such a little duffer. ‘If you don’t like him 
why . on earth don’t you change him, Mildred ?’ I said. ‘I 
wouldn’t live a week with a man if I found I’d made a mistake. 
You needn’t poison him, of course, or do anything desperate. 
Refuse to live with him. Incompatibility of temper, for in- 
stance. Go up to London and live your own life. Say you’re 
going in for the simple life, the strenuous life, anything.’ 

“ ‘Oh, my dear,’ the poor little fluffy fool gasped, with 
round eyes, ‘I really couldn’t. Besides, what would papa and 
mamma say? They’re so pleased about it all.’ 

“ ‘I shouldn’t care a fig about that . . . Run away with 
someone else; with Reggie. Anyone, so long as he’s a gentle- 
man . . 

“ ‘Oh, Mary!’ 

“Oh, Mary, Mary! It’s you who are quite contrary, my 
dear. I’m afraid the only thing then is to poison him off 
quietly. I don’t recommend that way; still, sometimes it has 
been done.” 

“We had a case like that in our own family,” said Mrs. 
Nash, who was busy, without spectacles, on some embroidery. 
“My papa’s youngest brother poisoned his wife. He was stay- 
ing at some sea-port when he was a young man ; I forget which 
it was. You know those were great days for betting, my dear; 
at the clubs they’d make books on one another’s deaths, and 
back flies crawling up a window-pane, and do all sorts of fool- 
ish things. I remember even my papa — and he was very strait- 
laced — pinched a bishop’s leg’s wife — wife’s leg, I mean — in 
Pall Mall. She was sitting in her carriage, a very pompous, 


358 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

frigid old dame; the daughter of a marquis, I believe. Some- 
one at the club bet him he Wouldn’t. Out he went; raised his 
hat most courteously; lifted up her dress, and pinched her leg. 
Then he raised his hat again and went back. He won fifty 
pounds, and he sent ten of it to her for a society she was inter- 
ested in on behalf of negro footmen, with a note saying that he 
was much obleeged to her ladyship.” (Miss Nash retained cer- 
tain old affectations of speech: obleeged; the Cities of Paris; 
tay, for tea. . . .) “Well, Uncle George was sitting in an inn 
window, and one of his friends said, ‘Bet you a hundred you 
won’t propose to the first woman you meet in the street, George, 
like Lord X.’ He went out there and then; the first woman 
was married, the second wouldn’t look at him, but he married 
the third. She was just a pork-butcher’s daughter, and she 
gave him an awful time. Later on he wanted to marry Lord 
Glenton’s daughter, who had ten thousand a year of her own. 
Of course, his wife wouldn’t come to any arrangement, and he 
got so mad about it all that at last he popped a little poison into 
her soup and finished her off. Papa knew about it, and they 
held a family council ; but they hushed the affair up and sent 
him out of the country. He nlay be there yet for all I know; 
though I suppose it must be eighty years ago now. How time 
does fly!” 

“Well, I hope if ever you see a cloud the size of a man’s 
hand on your horizon, Mary,” said her brother, “you’ll make 
sure that he’s Mr. Right — as my old ladies say — before you 
marry him.” 

“If he turned out to be Mr. Wrong, Gordon,” retorted 
Mary, looking very determined, “you may be pretty sure some- 
thing would happen. Perhaps two Wrongs might make a 
Right.” 

“Mary, you appall me.” 

“I could never do what Mildred seems determined to do. 
I couldn’t live on and on for thirty or forty years with a man 
I didn’t care for, or a man who didn’t care for me. I — simply 
— couldn’t — do it. Why, whenever I think of poor old Mil- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 359 

dred and that face on the pillow and at the breakfast-table, it 
gives me the cold shivers.” 

Mary, known more intimately, was a revelation to Ledgar. 
At Beltinge when he first saw her he thought her a rather 
prim, old-maidish little girl, submitting with as good a grace 
as possible to the half-contemptuous raillery of her brother. 
Later on, she revealed unsuspected pride of caste and birth. 
And now — she was singing a risque French song (certainly 
very charmingly) and announcing the possibility of eloping 
with someone else if her marriage should turn out a failure. 

Ledgar thought it was no doubt all very highly-bred ; Mary 
could certainly do nothing that was not quite the last word in 
correctness. But she was in emphatic contrast to his own 
womenkind and those he had hitherto met. Winnie, for in- 
stance. If Winnie found that she had made a mistake in mar- 
rying Edward, Ledgar felt quite sure that she’d purse her lips 
together, say nothing even to her closest friend, and make up 
her mind to go through with it. Or Emmeline. In her own 
family, Emmeline had always had the reputation — no doubt 
quite undeserved — of being a little callous. When their grand- 
father died, Mrs. Dunstan’s father, and Mrs. Dunstan in a 
broken voice announced the fact to the children, Emmeline had 
remarked quite cheerfully and with the best intentions in the 
world, “Well, never mind, ma, dear; he’s much better off 
where he is. He’ll be an angel now. And Mrs. Boy told me 
she was more than sixty when she married Mr. Boy, so grandma 
may marry again. It’s all for the best.” Mrs. Dunstan said 
tearfully to her husband, “The child hasn’t any heart at all. 
And he always had a bag of sweets for her when he saw her.” 
Again, when Ledgar fell downstairs while sliding on a tea- 
tray, and Mrs. Dunstan was poulticing his bruises with vinegar 
and brown paper, Emmeline said “Please, ma, if Ledgar dies, 
may I have his rocking-horse?” Mr. Dunstan came in at the 
moment and heard the. remark. One of those odd, shocking 
little memories that lurked at the very back of his mind was 
of a small girl suddenly tilted over, and a broad hand smack- 


360 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

ing small, red flannel pantaloons. He remembered also (it 
is almost too shocking to repeat) how he had to pinch and hug 
himself to prevent the exclamation, “Turn the other cheek, 
Emmeline, turn the other cheek !’" It was so appropriate, so 
scriptural, and so fascinatingly terrible that, if the words did 
slip out, the roof would surely fall amid sonorous thunder, the 
carpeted floor open, engulfing him. Pa, Ma, Emmeline — red 
flannel pantaloons and all — in a lake of indignant, expectant 
fire . . . Yet, when Emmeline had stolidly dried her eyes, she 
exclaimed, “I only wanted to give it to Mrs. Monger’s little 
boy; he never has any toys at all.” Of course, Emmeline never 
would by any possibility have married Mr. Wrong. The mere 
act of marriage would have made Mr. Wrong, however unat- 
tractive, however soulless, however plebeian, Mr. Right at 
once. 

A trim maid appeared at this moment with a tray, a bottle, 
and a glass of water. “Bedtime, Mrs. Nash,” she said, and 
began to pour out a thimbleful of whisky into the water. 
“Come, come, Jane, you’re not even coloring the water. Give 
the bottle to me.” 

“’Gainst orders, ma’am.” Mrs. Nash sipped the whisky; 
Gordon, Ledgar, and Mary said good night. 

Ledgar smoked a cigar with Gordon before leaving. Mary 
took a gold-tipped cigarette. “It’s ages since you came to Bel- 
tinge, Ledgar,” she said as he shook hands. “Are you doing 
anything at Christmas? Why not come down then?” 

Ledgar, who had spent the j oiliest afternoon and evening 
since Jelf died at Maggio, said he would. On his way back to 
town he did not give a single thought to the object of his visit; 
to poor old Uncle Ab, lying naked and labeled on his slab, until 
he could be taken in a cart to the station; stowed in a guard’s 
van with other luggage ; trundled by porters on trolleys along a 
platform, and packed safely away at last with Aunt Eliza 
under granite. 


CHAPTER XII 


I N old-fashioned Christmas weather — slush in London 
streets, crisp hard snow in the country lanes and roads — > 
Ledgar traveled down to Beltinge. Gordon met him at 
Friars Wood, the nearest station, in the dog-cart. “We’ve 
a pretty full house,” he said. “I’ve my fellow-curate at Can- 
ford and one of my old subalterns; Mary has invited Mildred 
and Vansittart, and Mildred’s younger sister Estelle — she’s 
engaged to Sir Charles Davenport, you know, and very likely 
he’ll come too. Then there are what I always call ballast ; the 
old folk. Grandmater’s old friend Mrs. Durant is coming; 
she’s a very jolly old sort; she lived most of her life in India. 
Colonel Durant was a sort of Prime Minister to the Jam or 
Dam or Ram (I forget his exact title) of Narragana. You 
should see her diamonds! Then the Vicar’s coming; he’s sup- 
posed to be very interesting, and I daresay you’ll like him — 
he’s by way of being a literary man too. He’s the greatest liv- 
ing authority on Biblical zoology. What he doesn’t know about 
Jonah’s whale, and Balaam’s ass, and Samson’s lion, and — and 
John the Baptist’s locusts isn’t worth knowing. Get him on to 
the Apocalyptic beasts; he’ll open your eyes a bit . . . Oh, I 
say. I’m forgetting the most illustrious of the party. Dr. Thamp- 
sett. He’s eminent if you like, though he does practice at Bel- 
tinge. He’s been black-balled twice for the Athenseum and 
three times for the Royal Society. Of course it wasn’t his 
fault he didn’t get in ; he tried hard enough. I think that’s the 
lot.” 

Christmas was always kept up in great state at Beltinge. 
“It’s a birthday that belongs to all the world,” Mrs. Beltinge 
used to say, and she spared no effort to make it thoroughly en- 
joyable to her guests. A great log-fire was blazing in the hall, 
where a couple of young people had already set the polyphone 

361 


362 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

braying and banging. “The grandmater won’t often let us 
work the thing,” Gordon said, “but of course at Christmas 
Beltinge is unbelted !” In his immense bedroom Ledgar found 
everything ready for his comfort. Here too a log-fire was 
blazing ; the most cozy of easy chairs was drawn up before it ; 
a man was filling a hot bath in the dressing-room; and his 
evening things had been warmed and laid ready. He stood for 
a few minutes before the fire, rubbing his hands. He liked 
luxury and even display; only at Beltinge would he receive such 
a welcome. Close to his bed was a revolving bookcase with 
carefully chosen books; a reading-stand near it could be ar- 
ranged for use in bed ; old as the house was, electric lights and 
lamps and heaters had been pressed into the service of comfort. 
Even a small typewriter and a writing-pad with fountain pen 
beside it had not been forgotten, in case he should feel inclined 
for literary work during his visit. 

Ledgar changed and went down to the drawing-room. Mrs. 
Beltinge and Mary received him very cordially; he was at 
home immediately. How much more pleasant, he thought, are 
friends than relatives! At Beltinge no one deemed it his busi- 
ness to keep you in order, to be impertinent or unduly familiar. 
You were there as an honored guest, to be given a good time. 

Mrs. Durant, the widow of the Jam, Dam, or Ram’s Prime 
Minister, was a short, stout, jolly old lady, resplendent in black 
silk and really wonderful diamonds. She was talking to Mrs. 
Beltinge about fakirs and the feats of Indian jugglers when 
Ledgar entered. It was really a fact that men did remain 
buried for a long time and were then resuscitated; Stevenson 
had, of course, used the idea in “The Master of Ballantrae.” 
The Vicar saw nothing remarkable in that ; it simply confirmed 
the story of Jonah. But was the mango trick an optical il- 
lusion? The exercise of hypnotic influence over the audience? 
Or what? 

Ledgar took Mrs. Durant in to dinner. Vansittart was 
there, grunting; and Mildred was chatting happily enough with 
the subaltern. After dinner, Ledgar was introduced to Miss 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 363 

Bright, Higgins* successor. She was the direct opposite of 
Higgins, now in a sense down among the dead men; whereas 
Higgins would speak in a sepulchral whisper, and make re- 
marks about Mrs. Beltinge in her presence and to her annoy- 
ance (“She’s not very well this evening; I think the cheese 
upset her.” “Your dear grandmamma is almost ready for bed, 
I think, Mary — she’s looking very sleepy”). Miss Bright 
treated the old lady with a lively and good-tempered tact which 
suited her infinitely better. Compared with Higgins, Mrs. 
Beltinge said to Ledgar, Miss Bright was quite a treasure. She 
had as many tricks as a performing dog or elephant; and in the 
course of the evening was put through several of them. Just 
the person for a Christmas house-party. She could sing and 
play a little, but her abilities lay chiefly in the direction of freak 
music: Chinese chop-sticks, “Knocked ’em in the Old Kent 
Road” as a hymn-tune, and so forth. She was fairly good at 
cards; but, if there were better players, no one knew more card 
tricks. Show her a shilling, and she’d find you an elephant 
lurking somewhere in the Queen’s head. Blindfold her; she’d 
make someone pin a sprig of holly in the buttonhole of the very 
person you had thought of. There wasn’t an animal whose 
peculiar cry she could not imitate. It was as good as having 
a private farmyard and a private zoo, without the inconveni- 
ences. Any Jam, Dam, or Ram in his senses would have paid 
a lakh of rupees for her as she stood. She told animal stories, 
too. They were as good as iTsop or Kipling or Uncle Remus. 

“An elephant, growing tired of married life, packed up his 
trunk and eloped with a female camel. But soon the camel, 
getting the hump, reported the matter to the police. The 
elephant was duly tried for bigamy, and was sentenced to death. 
‘Have you any complaints to make?’ asked the porcupine, busy 
with his quills. ‘I complain that the evidence has not been read 
over to me.’ ‘Execute him at once,’ said the magistrate; ‘it is 
our invariable custom to read the evidence after the execution 
of the sentence.’ ” 

“Moral : don’t wear green spectacles in bed.” 


364 The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 

“But,” said Mrs. Durant, who saw nothing particularly 
funny in the story, and was too polite to say so, “what had 
green spectacles to do with it?” 

“That’s just what the gnu asked when the porcupine told 
her the story. ‘Why not wear green spectacles in bed?’ Be- 
cause the magistrate had been reading the evidence the night 
before, by candle-light, and he always had to wear green spec- 
tacles to do that. As they fell off on the left side of the bed, 
he had to get out of bed the wrong side the next morning. 

“Then, of course,” said Miss Bright brightly, “the gnu 
knew.” 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Durant, who did not like being coupled 
with a gnu. 

“You should hear some of the Indian story-tellers, my dear 
Matilda. I remember one man in the bazaar at Narragana . . 

The Vicar, having heard that Ledgar was a literary man^ 
had neatly corralled him in a corner of the great drawing-room. 
“I have written occasionally myself,” he said modestly. “I 
suppose you never saw my monograph on the frogs jumping 
out of the dragon’s mouth in the Apocalypse? A most fasci- 
nating subject. Frogs, if I may say so without egotism, have 
always especially appealed to me. Since I was a child I have 
been interested in Batrachians. Science has ever attached great 
importance to the tadpole in connection with human origins. I 
was eight years old when I dissected my first amphibian of the 
anoura. Yes. You see the importance of the frog in litera- 
ture — ^^Tsop, Aristophanes, Horace . . . 

“ . ranaque palustres 

Avertunt somnesf 

“Yes. In the Bible, besides the Apocalyptic reference, there 
is, of course, the plague of frogs in Exodus. Now do you 
know how many families of frogs there are? Nine, divided 
into ninety-two genera and four hundred and forty species. Yes.” 

Ledgar managed to extract him at last from a marsh in 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 365 

which swam, jumped, dived, floated, and paddled innumerable 
liopelma hochstetteri, alytes obstetr'icans , rana temporaria, rana 
mugiens, and rana esculenta, and brought him safely from a 
forest vociferous with polypedatidce, pelodryadce, nototrema 
marsupiatum, and rhacophorus, by asking him whether he 
thought the rana esculenta — the edible frog — was the one men- 
tioned in the Revelation. Curiously enough, the idea had 
never occurred to him; he made a note of it on his shirt-cuff. 
Ledgar also mentioned the fact that a clergyman of his ac- 
quaintance had evolved a theory that St. John wrote the Reve- 
lation while suffering from chronic dyspepsia induced by eating 
shell-fish on Patmos. “Dear, dear, most interesting. It never 
occurred to, me.” Down shot the shirt-cuff again. “Quite 
heterodox, of course, but there may be something in it. Yes. 
Shell-fish on Patmos, c.f. Lampreys. Thank you.” 

“Do you think the orthodox position with regard to the 
Apocalypse can be maintained?” asked Ledgar, glad at any 
cost to get him away from swamp and forest. 

“Why not? There are more things in heaven and earth 
— I see no difficulty. With four hundred and forty known spe- 
cies of frogs on earth, why not four hundred and forty in that 
under- world of spirit? Now there is a very curious thing 
about the dragon . . 

Miss Bright arrived at this moment to capture Ledgar for 
a hand at whist with Mrs. Beltinge, Mrs. Durant, and Sir 
Charles Davenport. This brought the evening to its conclu- 
sion. Ledgar smoked a cigarette in his dressing-room, switched 
on the reading-lamp, selected a book, and curled himself up in 
bed with his feet on a hot-water bottle, thinking that there were 
worse places in the world for a Christmas holiday than Beltinge. 

Christmas morning; and a sharp frost on the window-glass. 
It was quite like childhood again to hear Gordon chaffing Mary 
at breakfast. Gordon dragged the Vicar, Dr. Thamsett, and 
the other men round the stables ; and then they started for Bel- 
tinge church. The Vicar preached an excellent sermon from 
the text, “And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the 


366 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” He 
gave a long and learned dissertation on the beasts probably to 
be found in the stable, with especial reference to the ass; no 
doubt the turtle dove and young pigeons used a little later for 
the sacrifice would also be there. Of course, the special lesson 
to be learnt from this text was humility. Christianity, destined 
to be the world religion, began in the manger. The history of 
humanity began with the theft of a single fruit. The history 
of Rome began with two sucklings, and the salvation of Rome 
was accomplished by geese. The history of America began with 
a glass of water handed to Columbus. And so on . . . 

“But — but — but,” thought Ledgar. Vermiform appendices. 
The Armada was scattered by a few small fishing vessels. Hol- 
land broke the power of Imperial Spain. Only, at once ex- 
ceptions presented themselves. To prove the rule? 

The Vicar, at all events, was troubled by none of these; 
Christianity was indubitably true, and was proved most effi- 
caciously by the very obscurity of its origins. God’s ways were 
most certainly not the ways of man. The whole story showed 
a complete subversal of men’s ideas. A King riding on a 
donkey, crowned with thorns, crucified. Disciples and apostles, 
humble men, fisher folk and peasants, persecuted and executed. 
He had been much struck lately by the fact that the only Eng- 
lish king mentioned in the Bible was the most foolish king in 
Christendom, James the First. This was not merely acci- 
dental. Today they were met together to celebrate the hum- 
blest and the greatest of all birthdays, the birthday of the 
Savior of the World . . . After a few more remarks the Vicar 
stealthily looked at his watch; he must not let the manger- 
birth make him overlook his turkey, port, and pudding, at Bel- 
tinge. No . . . “Now to God the Father.” A sudden change 
of voice, and the congregation rose. “Let us sing to the glory 
of God hymn number fifty-nine: ‘Let us now go even unto 
Bethlehem.’ Fifty-ninth hymn. 


»> 


come, all ye faithful. 
Joyful and triumphant . 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 367 

“ *Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him,* ** 
rose the voices, hearty and happy in the frosty air. Clear and 
strong and pure, Mary’s voice sounded above the rest. Holly, 
mistletoe, and evergreens decked the dark hatchments and 
dusty tombs of dead generations of Beltinges. Certainly a 
jolly, happy, cheery faith as it was now presented. Ledgar 
had heard Gordon singing “Christians, Awake!” at the very 
opening of the day. Yes, a comfortable, cozy faith, if one could 
only believe it, and cover up the blood of sacrifice with ever- 
greens, and drown the agonized cries of martyrs, the shrieks of 
the persecuted and tortured, in Christian hymns. 

Mary and Ledgar walked home together through the park. 
The ancient trees shone with frost; strange that each oak held 
in its heart the secret number of its years! And here were the 
robins, with the sacrificial blood upon their breasts. And here, 
under one of the trees, a donkey — surely not old enough to be 
Ledgar’s friend in adversity — bearing his cross of triumph and 
of shame. Well, what was true? 

They were certainly going to have a jolly good dinner, as 
their noses told him almost before they had shaken the snow 
from their boots at the door. 

There were presents for everyone and from everyone; after 
dinner most of the elder folk dozed in arm-chairs, too torpid 
to be disturbed. Gordon, Mary, Ledgar, and the younger 
members of the party cracked nuts, wore paper caps from the 
bonbons, asked absurd riddles, egged Miss Bright on to animal 
stories, and incited her, when the Vicar woke from his snooze 
and took his silk handkerchief from his bald head, to try the 
effect of her most serious anecdote upon him. “Dear me! 
Extraordinary!” The gold-rimmed glasses were pushed down, 
and down shot the shirt-cuff. “A guinea-fowl with chicken-pox, 
indeed !” 

They had a riotous evening. For a fete, a festival, a treat, 
a party. Miss Bright was the right person in the right place. 
She was it. She was she — who must be obeyed. No slackers, 
no shirkers; whatever the game was, everyone must play that 


$68 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

game. Father O’Flynn coaxed the lazy ones on with a stick; 
she hustled them into action. Half the company found them- 
selves seated at progressive whist before they knew even that 
they wanted to play whist. And then, of course, they enjoyed 
it. Miss Bright knew the psychological moment at which to 
trot out Dr. Thamsett as an amateur conjurer; it was of com- 
paratively little importance that most of his tricks absolutely 
refused to come off. The black ball on the string didn’t stop 
at the exact place where it was expected to stop : never mind, it 
stopped somewhere. The other black ball (perhaps one of the 
Athenaeum balls) did not appear, as he predicted, in Mrs. Bel- 
tinge’s pocket: never mind, it cropped up in the bosom of Mary’s 
blouse . . . They played spin the trencher, dumb charades, 
and charades not suffering from that affliction; proverbs; pork 
and greens. At consequences (the game to which we all sit 
down, the hanger back not least) Ledgar met Mary in a bird- 
cage at the zoo ; presented her with teething powders and pig’s 
trotters — a most suitable combination as a preliminary to an 
engagement — duly married her, and the consequence was that 
they fell off the Eiffel Tower and were drowned. As Mary 
asked, what else could you expect? “We must avoid Paris for 
our honeymoon, then, Ledgar,” she said; and immediately col- 
ored and bit her lip. Mrs. Durant, who was too stout for cir- 
culation, found herself, before she knew what was happening, 
at the grand piano, playing for musical chairs. She had no 
music with her, and, forgetting herself, played everything she 
knew so relentlessly that at last they had to implore her to 
come to an early end. “Oh, I’m so sorry, my dears, I quite 
forgot,” she said agreeably, having recovered from the shock 
of so rude a suggestion. When at last she did stop, Ledgar, 
who had been hovering in loving uncertainty over chair after 
chair, found himself left suddenly in the cold. Perhaps Esau 
had the same experience, when Jubal’s great-grandson was at 
the organ. 

There came a lull in the entertainment. They had danced 
a set of lancers, a set of quadrilles; Sir Roger must be left, of 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 369 

course, until the conclusion of the evening. “Can’t you think 
of another game, Miss Bright?” pleaded Estelle. “Please do. 
You are so good at everything.” 

Miss Bright put her forefinger to her forehead and reflected. 
Ask Blackley’s for an elephant, ask them for an ant’s nest; 
think of everything between the two extremes; you may at last 
exhaust their resources. But no. Miss Bright was not to be 
conquered. “Invicta” stamped itself on her brightening brow, 
as it is stamped on the brows of the steam-rollers. “There is a 
game — I forget the — Oh, I know ; of course, Adverbs. What 
reminded me of it was a very funny little story I read the other 
day ; I think by Anstey. Someone goes out, and you decide on 
an adverb: politely, brusquely, impudently — anything you like. 
When the person comes in again you treat him in the way you 
have chosen, and he has to guess. In this story a young bar- 
rister I think was staying in a country house belonging to some 
nouveaux riches. He was horribly bored, and suggested Ad- 
verbs, volunteering to go out. They had been expecting the 
Vicar to call, and were very much hurt because he had not been. 
When they called out that they were ready a person made up 
like a clergyman, and speaking with a clerical voice, entered. 
It was a winter’s afternoon, and they were sitting by firelight. 
Of course, they thought their guest was acting, and the word 
they had chosen was ‘Rudely.’ ” 

“How awfully rich!” said Mary. 

“You can imagine what a situation followed,” went on Miss 
Bright. “The Vicar — of course, it was the Vicar — apologized 
to his hostess for not having called before. ‘We thought you 
were never coming,’ she replied sweetly. ‘It was really most 
inconsiderate of you.’ He looked puzzled, and remarked that 
his wife was sorry she had been unable to accompany him. 
‘And how is the old geeser?’ asked the youngest daughter. 
‘Not that we wanted her to come; I hear she talks like a gramo- 
phone, and she’s such an appetite that she’d eat us out of house 
and home.’ ‘Really,’ said the Vicar, wiping his brow, ‘what 
extraordinary people! I’ve never been treated like this before 


370 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

by any of my parishioners.’ ‘You are now then, old cock,’ 
piped the smallest boy. ‘How much did it cost you to color 
your nose?’ ‘I was going to say that my wife is indisposed.’ 
‘Oh, does she drink too?’ asked another daughter. Of course, 
I can’t remember the exact words of the story; I’m making up 
the conversation ; it was much cleverer than that.” 

“And I hope less vulgar. Miss Bright,” said Mrs. Beltinge 
reprovingly. 

“Oh, it’s all fun, grandma. Ledgar, you and I will go out. 
It sounds rather a jolly game.” 

“Well, my dear, we mustn’t choose ‘rudely,’ or anything 
very boisterous; I’m afraid Mrs. Durant has a headache.” 

“Now don’t be long,” said Mary. “Oh, isn’t it hot in 
there?” she said to her companion when the door had closed 
upon them. “What fun it would be to behave rudely to John 
Vansittart; or to Mrs. Durant — only she’s really a dear old 
soul. I very nearly said, ‘Because she had three helpings of 
Christmas pudding, and she’s lucky not to have the pain some- 
where else,’ when grandma said she had a headache. Let’s 
sit on the stairs. Heaps of room for two.” 

By and by she grew impatient. “What a time they’re tak- 
ing!” She went to the door, and was going to tap, when curi- 
osity prompted her to listen instead. “Hush, Ledgar, such a 
joke! They’ve chosen ‘ungrammatically,’ because it’s quiet. 
It’s a silly word, though; we should have found it out at 
once. I’ll tell you what we’ll do; we’ll go in and pretend 
not to know; and we’ll speak to them ungrammatically!” 
But her plan was frustrated by the sudden opening of the 
door. 

“Ready!” cried Gordon, and then, catching sight of his 
sister, “Oh, look here, Mary, that’s not fair. You’ve been 
listening. It isn’t playing the game. Did you hear the 
word ?” 

Mary colored, just a little ashamed of herself. 

“Did you? Because if you did we shall have to choose 
another.” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 371 

“I ain’t a-going to say,” said Mary. 

“Oh, well, we’ll have to choose again, then. Go right up- 
stairs, both of you. We can’t trust you near the door.” 

“Well, don’t be so awfully long making up your minds. 
Come along. Led.” She was in very high spirits, which were 
infectious; Ledgar was thoroughly enjoying himself. Up the 
broad polished stairs they went together, past antlers. Hal- 
berds, masks; “In here, shall we?” she said. On the first land- 
ing was a small morning-room, which the housekeeper had used 
during the afternoon. A fire was burning brightly but other- 
wise the room was unlit. “Never mind about switching up 
the light, Ledgar. We’ll sit on the floor in front of the fire. 
Like the mistletoe bough something, isn’t it? ‘Oh, the mistletoe 
bow-wow-wow.’ I expect the carol singers will be round 
soon . . , Heaps of room.” She tucked her frock round her. 
It was of some sheeny white material; cut low, with a string 
of seed pearls round her neck; a sprig of holly was at her breast, 
and another in her hair. The red berries were wonderfully 
becoming; they suited her better then than any jewels or flow- 
ers. The firelight glowed on the clear-cut lines of her face; 
the short, aristocratic upper lip, the slightly — very slightly — 
arched nose. Mary really looked very handsome; very jolly, 
too, tonight. Ledgar’s mouth and throat were dry; always an 
indication of excitement. 

“We’ll keep them waiting ourselves if they take so long to 
make up their minds,” said Mary. “Perhaps they’ll think 
we’ve got locked up in some big old treasure chest, and our 
bones will turn up in twenty years’ time on another Christ- 
mas night.” 

“I shouldn’t mind,” whispered Ledgar. 

“Oh, I should. I don’t want anyone to find my bones in a 
box. Life’s too jolly. Don’t you think so?” 

Ledgar really began to think it was. 

“There is an old treasure chest in the lumber-room ; I turned 
it out the other day — old gowns and papers, and a Breeches 
Bible, and some books. It wasn’t big enough for two, though. 


372 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

It would be rather fun to hide. I know ! Let’s hide ourselves 
in the cupboard!” 

They squeezed in together. Her warm young body was 
against his; there was scarcely room for two to move. “Don’t 
breathe if they come, Led!” She was breathing fast. “How 
awful if someone locked the door, and forgot all about us!” 

“I shouldn’t mind,” whispered Ledgar again, and kissed 
her. 

Light and heavier feet came up the stairs. “Where on 
earth are they?” 

“Perhaps they’ve forgotten we’re playing Adverbs and not 
Hide-and-Seek,” said Gordon. “Mary! Ledgar! Where 
are you? We’re ready!” 

. “Here they are,” said Sir Charles Davenport, flinging wide 
the door. “I say, Estelle, we’ll go out next time, eh, what?” 

“Come along, you two!” said Gordon, who seemed slightly 
nettled. “What on earth are you doing in the cupboard? 
Didn’t you hear us call ?” 

“Oh, Mary!” giggled Estelle, “I didn’t know you went in 
for cupboard love.” Mary, blushing furiously, was trying to 
look as innocent as a little lamb. And Ledgar — Ledgar did 
not know how to look. 

But when they reached the drawing-room, chance, or a good- 
tempered Providence watching over even the small afEairs of 
humanity, and liking to do them neatly, gave Ledgar the op- 
portunity for the most tactful , and graceful act of his life. 
They went first to Mrs. Durant. “I’m afraid we’ve kept you 
waiting an awful time,” said Mary. 

“My dear, we ain’t in no ’urry.” Mrs. Durant beamed on 
the company at having accomplished her part so well, until 
Mildred bent across and whispered in her ear. “Oh, wasn’t 
ungrammatical the word? I thought that was what you 
chose.” She pulled herself together for another effort. “You 
two ill-mannered young donkeys to . . .” The coldness with 
which this effort also was received pulled her up again. “Stupid 
old thing!” whispered the subaltern, “she’s going all through 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 373 

the dictionary/* “Well, what was the word?” she said testily. 
Mildred whispered again. “Oh, yes, now I remember ... It 
was perfectly charming of you to give us so long for considera- 
tion. We admire your courtesy in so doing.*’ 

“Excellent! Bravo!” cried the Vicar. 

“Please, we’ll try not to let it occur again,” said Ledgar 
to the Vicar himself. 

“H’m — ha — you must give me time. Yes. I con . . .** 

“Hush, hush, you’re letting the cat out of the bag!” Mrs. 
Durant, all excitement now, clapped her hand over his mouth. 

“I thought it had to be questions, though,” said the Vicar,* 
playing for time. 

“Didn’t you get awfully bored at having to wait so long?” 

“On the contrary — h’m — ha — we must express our satis- 
faction at your expedition.” 

“What a pretty frock you have on, Mildred !” 

“Not nearly so charming as yours, my dear. I admire your 
taste.” 

“Well, Vansittart, I hope you’ve got over the effects of your 
Christmas dinner?” 

“Er — er . . . Oh, I say, you’ll have to let me down easier, 
old chap. Er . . .” 

“Is that the answer?” asked Ledgar. “Can’t make much 
of that, Mary.” 

“No, no; I wasn’t playing then. Wait a sec; Oh, yes; I’ve 
got it. I congratulate Mary on a grandmother who knowTS 
what good old English tack is. Eh, what?” 

“Stupid fool, he’s done it!” growled the subaltern. “I knew 
he would.” 

“Complimentary,” said Mary, looking round for a seat. 

“First guess wrong!” cried several voices. People who had 
been looking depressed cheered up. John Vansittart was such 
an ass that it was safe for him to do what would have been 
fatal for any other. It was Mary’s turn now. Miss Bright 
was on the qui vive. She was certain to say something clever, 
and people were all attention. Miss Bright knew that great 


374 Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

things were expected, and was a trifle nervous. “Well, 
Brighty,” said Mary, whose cheeks were flushed and eyes very 
bright, “when are you going to run off after an undertaker V* 

“Oh!” Brighty bridled; this was a home thrust, catching 
her, so to speak, in the matrimonial rib, nearest the heart. But 
she rose to the occasion. “I’m afraid I’m not fast enough to 
overtake one,” she retorted. “At my venerable age I must 
leave that to younger folk like yourself, who are quite capable 
of running after gentlemen.” 

“Ho, ho!” said the subaltern to the curate, “that’s a nasty 
one for Miss Beltinge. Brighty seems quite capable of keeping 
her end up.” 

Ledgar approached Mrs. Beltinge. “I must ask you to con- 
gratulate Mary and me, grandmater,” he said pointedly. The 
guests clapped at the successful solution of the adverb. But 
Mrs. Beltinge was more astute. She looked at them keenly; 
Mary nodded. “My dear, I’m very pleased.” She drew her 
granddaughter to her and kissed her. Then came Ledgar’s 
turn; she kissed him too, as she had kissed him when he was 
a little boy. As the situation dawned gradually on the com- 
pany, they broke into prolonged clapping. 

A clamor at the door announced the arrival of carolers and 
mummers. A man pirouetted on a hobby horse; Maid Marian 
was there; then a choir from church and village drew together 
in the great hall. “Let’s start the polyphone,” said Davenport 
to Estelle. “For goodness’ sake, don’t, Charlie . . .” 

'"The first good joy that Mary had. 

It was the joy of one/* 

rang out the voices of the choristers. 

"To see the blessed Jesus Christ, 

When He was first her Son. 

When He was first her Son, good Lord, 

And happy may we be; 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 375 

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 

To all eternity.** 

The Beltinge baker, vigorous as choir-master, progged and 
almost thrashed his yokels into action. Now and again there 
was resentment. His bitter rival was the blacksmith; black- 
smiths and workers in small metal — ^whistling tinkers, for in- 
stance — have all a hereditary reputation to keep up in matters 
musical. “Doan’t you get a-poking me, now, Maister Pettifer. 
I know what I be zinging. ‘The fodder, the wand, and the 
burden for the ass’s back,* says that very noble book Ecclesi- 
asticus. I bain’t an ass.” 

“I never said it! I never said it!” screamed the choir-master 
excitedly. “But there’s no need for you to sing like a female 
woman, a girt fellow like you.” 

“I’ve beared tell that note of mine’s been very much ad- 
mired.” 

“Screeching out in that rideekerlous falsetter!” grumbled 
Mr. Pettifer. “There, get on with it; get on with it, do. 
Second verse.” 

"The next good joy that Mary had. 

It was the joy of two; 

To see her own Son Jesus Christ 
Making the lame to go. 

Making the lame to go, good Lord; 

And happy may we be.** 

They sang “I Saw Three Ships”; they sang “Good King 
Wenceslas looked Out on the Feast of Stephen”; they sang 
“The First Noel.” And once more the wonderful star shone 
above those Holy Fields where shepherds watched their sheep ; 
and once more the Kings brought their gold and frankincense 
and myrrh. Until at last the final verse of the final carol 
rang out lustily, 


376 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

"To teach us humility, all this was done. 

And learn we from thence haughty pride for 
to shun; 

A manger His cradle who came from above. 

The great God of mercy, of peace, and of love. 

Aye, and therefore . . 

Davenport had already started the bravos and clapping. 
*‘Domn it/* muttered the blacksmith, “why doan’t these here 
lordings let us finish? He done me out o’ my best top note.” 
They trooped away to the great kitchen for refreshments. 


CHAPTER XIII 


N either Mrs. Beltinge nor Mary believed in long en- 
gagements, and it was arranged that the marriage 
should take place early in the spring. Ledgar found 
the months pass very rapidly. Naturally indolent, he was 
forced into unwonted energy; time was no longer heavy on 
his hands ; as he interpreted success, his life at last gave promise 
of some achievement. For some time past he had been busy 
on his second book. Since boyhood the small States of the 
world had always had a fascination for him; there was no 
throne of Principality or Duchy or Grand Duchy that he had 
not occupied in imagination. The new novel was a romance, 
dealing with the adventures of a young officer in the Guard of 
the Schonborns, Prince-Bishops of Bamberg. The German set- 
ting, the period, and the color of life at the Papal Court to 
which his hero was introduced in the course of the story, gave 
him ample scope. He worked a good deal during the mornings 
in the British Museum Reading-room. It was here he met 
Miss Selina Pace. A curious little figure, with short gray hair, 
and semi-male attire — notably, a felt squash hat and a fawn 
dust-coat over a brown Cardigan waistcoat — she interested 
him from the first moment when he saw her in the next seat 
to his at the long row of desks. One afternoon he was at the 
Museum, and, instead of going to tea in the restaurant of the 
building, he went out to a neighboring cafe. In the smoking- 
room Miss Pace was just lighting a cigarette after her scone 
and butter and coffee. But the cigarette was broken and would 
not draw, and her case was now empty. She was on the point 
of ringing the bell when Ledgar, raising his hat, offered his 
own case. This led to conversation. She did the odd hack 
work of literature and journalism; translations, occasional re- 
views for country papers, indexing, paragraphs. She was the 

377 


378 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

“Uncle Ben” of a well-known temperance journal, and the 
“Aunt Cissie” of a Sunday School magazine. Hosts of small 
nephews and nieces throughout the country did Teetotal Acros- 
tics and Scripture Charts at her direction. She gave advice 
on love affairs to the readers of The Moss-Rose, a ladies’ penny 
weekly, 

“It’s badly paid work; thirsty work too — though not so bad 
as the temperance column,” said Miss Pace. “That always 
makes me want to put down a little drink. But it’s interesting. 
I’m making tracings of frogs now for a country clergyman. 
Sometimes ” 

“Not the Vicar of Beltinge?” 

It was the Vicar; did Ledgar know him? Under this new 
bond their acquaintance soon ripened into intimacy. Miss 
Selina Pace had had an eventful career. Once she had held 
quite an important position on a well-known paper as inter- 
viewer and dramatic critic. Two unfortunate little mischances 
cost her this appointment. One first night she was indisposed, 
and wrote her notice at home, speaking in very high terms of the 
leading actor. Most unfortunately, the leading actor was also 
indisposed, and had been unable to appear. She was warned 
that this sort of thing must not be allowed to occur again. 
Anxious to regain her lost kudos. Miss Pace sent in a pictur- 
esque and highly instructive interview with Herbert Spencer. 
Some friends of hers had some friends who had some friends 
who knew Mr. Spencer intimately, and told her several anec- 
dotes. The great philosopher himself took no notice of her 
request for an interview; but, nothing daunted, she nianaged 
to write a graphic account of a visit to his home. She knew 
that he always weighed his food; and she knew that when he 
went out on a muddy day he made a bridge of old newspapers 
(carried under his arm for the purpose) across the roads . . . 
She described Mr. Spencer, weighing out for her at luncheon 
(with a pleasing smile) four ounces of bread, six of cold 
pressed beef, and seven of old ale ; she depicted him taking her 
down the garden paths over a paper causeway. When in 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 379 

doubt, as Disraeli (was it Disraeli?) once said, it is always a 
safe rule to go to your imagination for your facts. Reporting 
a lengthy conversation, she described Mr. Spencer as saying 
that, although on minor points he could not see eye to eye with 
the theologians, the more deeply he studied sociology, earth- 
worms, and the wonders of the solar system, the more thor- 
oughly he was convinced that only the fool could say in his 
heart there was no God. She went on to hint that with ad- 
vancing years he was inclined to revise his attitude towards 
Transubstantiation and the Thirty-nine Articles ... It was, 
perhaps, unfortunate that by a careless slip of the pen she should 
have mixed up the philosopher with the chair in which he sat, 
and have made him move about with beautifully carved ancient 
mahogany legs on castors. What completed the trouble, how- 
ever, was a cliche which she thought herself lucky to obtain, 
showing an elderly gentleman remarkably like Mr. Spencer sit- 
ting in his garden with a little boy. Of course, the child ought 
to have been blocked out. The editor took exception to the 
heading “Mr. Spencer with his little grandson.” How could 
bachelors have little grandsons? Miss Selina Pace had to go. 

She was a little woman with plenty of grit and resolution; 
she had dozens of irons still in»the fire, but Ledgar suspected 
that it was. no easy matter to make both ends meet, even with 
the discarded remnants of male wardrobes. She was unaf- 
fectedly grateful when, on two or three occasions, he paid for 
her coffee and her scone. It was the most curious friendship 
of his life. In the Museum and its vicinity it did not matter 
very much for a literary man to be seen in company with such 
a little hobbling oddity; curious characters from New Grub 
Street formed a large proportion of the population. But he 
hesitated when she asked him to spend an evening at her home. 
She lived, she said, at Pigg’s Marsh, not very far from Mit- 
cham, in the South. Well, it was from the still less reputable 
East that Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar brought their gifts. 
She showed him a program of the Pigg’s Marsh Athenaeum, 
and asked him to select an evening. Quite a number of literary 


380 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

people lived near there; she v^as on the committee. He looked 
over the list of fixtures. Really, quite good. The first and 
opening event was an Eisteddfodd ; there were competitions in 
reciting, singing, essay-writing, sonnet-writing, and impromptu 
speaking. She won a copy of “How to Write a Novel” for a 
“Sonnet on Tripe and Onions.” That was the subject set; they 
generally made it as difficult as possible ; this had required deli- 
cate handling. She commenced with the cow in English mead- 
ows, the snow-white milk percolating through the ducts of the 
udder into the milkmaid’s pail ; crossed over in a line or two to 
the onion fields of Brittany; ended with the savory dish (in 
those last lines that demand a change of theme or treatment) 
on a British table, fortifying an East End family for life’s 
battle. Everyone thought it quite good. Susie Bremner, her 
friend, treated the subject humorously; her effort was not so 
successful. She began something like this : 

The forward onion once thus did I chide — 

Sweet thief! Whence didst thou steal thy breath 
that smells j 

If not from my love's hreathf The tears that hide 
Drop on my cheek. Q best of vegetables — 

For fruit thou never wert — With me abide 
While I run over to the shop for tripe 
Fresh from the udder of the placid cow. ‘ 

But they disqualified poor old Susie for plagiarism. Hard 
lines ! 

After the Eisteddfodd, came a political discussion on Home 
Rule; then a paper on London Humor by an eminent journal- 
ist. Six essays next by lady members on Women Writers of 
the Victorian Era. The week after, a paper on “The Ring 
and the Book,” by Robert Browning, followed by discussion. 
Then (“but I don’t suppose that would interest you; it’s such 
an odd subject”) Father Hilarius on Anti-Christ. 

Ledgar wondered if he were ever going to get away from 
Anti-Christ. 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 381 

*‘I daresay,” went on Miss Pace, “this date would be more 
to your taste — the tw’^enty-seventh — where is it? Oh, here we 
are.” She pointed a stubby finger at the program. “Costume 
recitals from Charles Dickens. Trial Scene in Pickwick; Mr. 
Bumble at tea; Miss Squeers entertains Nickleby.” 

“That looks good,” said Ledgar. “It’s a splendid program. 
By the way, who is this Father Hilarius?” 

“Oh, haven’t you heard of him? He’s very High Church; 
almost Roman, in fact. He preaches sometimes in the West 
End; very swagger congregations. Our president got hold of 
him ; it’s a paying night, to get funds for the Athenaeum library. 
People from Mitcham and Streatham and Wimbledon are sure 
to come. Mr. Brewster specially stipulated that it should not 
be a sermon; he does lecture sometimes. I heard him once on 
his early life in Ireland; he began by telling us that he’d 
started life as a miner. ‘Yes,’ he said after a pause, ‘I was 
a minor until I was twenty-one.’ . . . But Mr. Brewster 
didn’t like to pin him down to any subject, and you see what 
he’s let us in for. Who was Anti-Christ ? Or who cares ?” 

“I think I’d like to come to that,” said Ledgar. 

In the subject itself he took little interest; still, it was one 
that had always fascinated Jelf. And the abnormal, the bi- 
zarre, the extraordinary, always did hold more attraction for 
him than the normal. 

“Right you are,” said Miss Pace. “It’s a bargain. I’m 
afraid you’ll be horribly bored, though.” 

He called the next day on Telfer with a short story. He 
was getting good prices for these now; sometimes twenty-five 
or thirty pounds for the two markets. “Ever heard of Father 
Hilarius?” he asked. 

“Father Hilarius? Why, everyone’s heard of him, surely. 
The last time I had anything to do with him was when I 
brought out his ‘Squeaky Fiddles and Squalid Saints.’ A great 
book that; it went like hot cakes. I only heard him preach 
once. It was on Strange Social Sins; and, by Gad, he rubbed 
it in. The amusing thing was to see how much the people he 


382 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

preached at and attacked — men in frock-coats and silk hats, 
smartly dressed West-End people — enjoyed it all. I suppose 
each one was thinking ‘That’s a nasty knock for Lord X. or 
Lady Y.’ Paying game, you know; heaps of gold in the col- 
lection. I believe he’s genuine enough; he really thinks the 
world is going to perdition. He’s got a lot of queer ideas about 
prophecy. Oh, and you should just hear him pray. People 
write to him from all over the country. He reads out a list 
first of those who want to be prayed for. ‘Our prayers are 
desired for Sir Timothy Toby’s little girl, who is in the habit 
of biting her nails in church.’ Then he plays a harmonium, 
and people have to join in a sort of litany — you know — ‘We 
beseech Thee to hear us, and incline our hearts to keep this 
law.’ Funny to hear a lot of swells praying to be delivered 
from biting their nails in church . . . Oh, he’s great; I should 
certainly go and hear him for the experience.” 

Miss Pace and Ledgar, then, traveled from London Bridge 
to the lavender regions of the suburbs; and, leaving the train, 
arrived, after a short walk, at Pigg’s Marsh. “Susie Bremner 
lives with me,” Miss Pace explained; “she’s a dear old girl, 
and you’re sure to like her. Hard up like me, of course, so 
you mustn’t expect too much. She gets her living by dyeing.” 

“By dying? What an extraordinary way . . .” 

“Dyes clothes, feathers, dresses, gloves, anything. Dry-clean- 
ing as well. She hasn’t done very much lately, though; these 
big firms in the provinces that send their carts round and have 
agents collar most of the trade. People are getting too smart 
now for dry-cleaning; they like nettoyage a sec ,, , Here 
we are.” 

Pigg’s Marsh may really have been a marsh at some period 
of its history; just now it was a patch of scrubby common, 
edged by ditches, and presenting a few draggled gorse bushes 
and a stunted tree or so to the winds of heaven. Geese waddled 
over it, and it afforded scant pasture to two or three attenuated 
horses and one or two goats whose hair and beards badly needed 
the attentions of the barber. Facing the common was a row of 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 383 

small cottages with green palings. At one you could get tea; 
at another, buy lemonade and fruit; a third, which Miss Pace 
selected, told you that “Dying Is Done Here.” It looked as if 
people who were tired of life, after a Bank Holiday, say, spent 
among the cocoanut shies and paper bags and donkeys of the 
Marsh — people whose teas or whose wives had disagreed with 
them, for instance, or who were weary of dragging after them 
shoals of squalling children — were accustomed to drop in and 
for a small sum (ninepence, perhaps, or sixpence a head for a 
large party) die comfortably amid all the conveniences of mod- 
ern civilization. Of course, it was not that. “Susie wanted 
something to catch the eye,” Miss Pace said. “She really knows 
better. She’s quite well educated. I knew a man once who 
made Venetian blinds. He did quite a big trade through calling 
himself Bartimaeus.” 

Miss Bremner, a stoutish, jolly lady in spectacles, was pro- 
duced; Ledgar’s first impression was that he was being intro- 
duced to some new form of chameleon. She explained that she 
had only just finished work; they must excuse her while she 
washed the dyes off. She had to come down to open the door; 
even though they lived in the country it wasn’t safe — with so 
many tramps about — to leave the door unfastened. 

The two ladies had quite a jolly little parlor in common; 
the walls were covered with oleographs, photographs, and 
framed pictures from the Christmas numbers. There were 
two or three pieces of quite good furniture saved from the 
wreck of old homes. A grandfather’s clock stood in one corner; 
Miss Pace said that her father, who had lived in Lincolnshire, 
used to collect them from farmhouses and cottages before people 
in Birmingham and Wardour Street had discovered that there 
was a good demand for them. Their house at Pakeworth Cross 
was full of them. Unfortunately, Mr. Pace drank; Selina 
remembered that when she was a little girl he came home about 
two o’clock one night, and her mother called out, “What’s the 
time, James?” “Just twelve, my dear,” he said — he was always 
frightened of her mother — “I’ve been to a meeting of the C. E. 


384 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Men’s Society.” Well, he remembered suddenly that in an- 
other minute every clock in the bouse would be striking ; and he 
had to take off his boots and race round to put them back two 
hours . . . Ledgar was placed in the seat of honor; probably, 
from its battered condition, the chair in which Canute defied the 
sea. They had a jolly, ample, comfortable tea. Homemade 
bread ; two eggs apiece — new-laid ; buttered toast ; cake and 
honey. Susie and Selina fluttered round him like two quaint 
old hens, plying him with food. Contrasting it with Beltinge, he 
enjoyed the novelty of his experience. After tea. Miss Pace took 
him into a tiny box of a place which she described as her work- 
room and special sanctum. When she sported her oak here she 
was safe from all intrusion ; once in her castle, even Sophy dare 
not come in. On a mantelshelf were several curiosities, quite 
good, saved from the wreck of the Lincolnshire home ; Lowestoft 
china plates, an Uncle Toby jug, a clay idol brought from Af- 
rica by a missionary uncle ( it was a long time ago ; probably his 
grandchildren had graves by now), chopsticks sent from China 
by another uncle who had been carried off by puppy dogs and 
edible birds’ nests; an old snuff box, and a paper-weight from 
the oflice of Household Words. It was quite possible that 
Dickens had once used it. On the walls were portraits of two 
or three leading writers. A signed photograph of Miss Selina 
Pace herself thoughtfully poising a quill pen was among them. 
It had been accepted by the temperance paper, but was crowded 
out by “someone’s death” — ^John B. Gough, she fancied. On a 
tiny table was a battered typewriter, and near the typewriter 
piles and piles of paper. “That’s the prize I was telling you 
about,” she said, handing Ledgar a copy of “How to Write a 
Novel.” “I don’t think you can learn from books, though,” 
she said. “It’s either in you, or else it isn’t.” 

“Have you ever published one?” 

Miss Pace had not, though she had started several. She 
had one on the stocks now. Indeed, it had occurred to her 
that Ledgar might even feel inclined to collaborate. She 
showed him the first chapter. She thought it was fairly thrill- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 385 

ing for a start; the difficulty was to carry on. A handsome 
young convict, sentenced to death for a murder which he had 
not committed, escaped from Dartmoor, and made his way 
along the West Country coast. In the mist he encountered a 
bull at the edge of a cliff, and was tossed over. Fortunately 
the tide was up, and he was a good swimmer. Taking ofE his 
clothes, he swam a mile or two until the turning of the tide 
should enable him to land in safety. Suddenly he noticed an- 
other swimmer in distress. He raced towards him, but was too 
late to effect a rescue. Swimming ashore, he found a complete 
suit of clothes, with silk underwear (the public likes something 
spicy), on a rock. He changed into them, and in one of the 
pockets discovered that the deceased bather was the long-lost 
heir to a great property in the neighborhood, and had just re- 
turned from the Antipodes to claim his ancestral estates. On 
his way he had stopped for a dip, with the result already de- 
scribed. The young convict went up to the Hall to claim pos- 
session. A man in gorgeous livery ushered him into the pres- 
ence of a beautiful young lady, who received him with open 
arms. — (End of Chapter I.) 

Ledgar thought the story showed great possibilities. Un- 
fortunately, he was so busy now with his own book. 

“Ever tried a play, then?” suggested Miss Pace. “That’s 
what pays, you know^ I know a young man who wrote one in 
three weeks that brings him in eighty pounds a week now from 
London and the provinces. Better than novel writing. Why 
don’t you try it?” 

“No time — even if I had the ability.” 

“Well, say a curtain raiser. You could knock one off in a 
week. It might bring you in a hundred a month if it took. 
Look here.” She rubbed her stumpy fingers through her short 
gray hair for a second, collecting thought. “Young barrister 
meets friend in chambers; sees portrait of charming girl. Falls 
'in love. Who’s the girl? No idea. Despair. Reading-glass; 
name of photographer. Elation. End of Scene i. Scene 2: 
Ladies’ Agricultural College, Missouri, U. S. A. Barrister 


386 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

arrives. Interviews principal. Where’s the original of this 
photograph? Wait a minute, please. Enter twenty-seven 
young lady students. Composite photograph. Despair again — 
or Salt Lake City. Curtain. How’s that?” 

Miss Pace brandished her podgy hands as if appealing to 
an umpire. 

“H’m, very striking. Better for a story, though, I think. 
I should certainly work it into a short story. Miss Pace.” 

“Think so? Perhaps you’re right. Only that doesn’t mean 
so much. Well, look here. Young man expecting visit from 
long-lost aunt. Great expectations. She’s fifty — likely to live 
twenty or thirty years; very amorous; separated from her hus- 
band who drinks. He knows all her history. When she ar- 
rives, he is in deep mourning; his friend, the nephew, has just 
died of — anything you like; vaccination, bubonic plague, in- 
fluenza. Aunt doesn’t recognize him. Makes himself most 
agreeable; proposes. They get married. At church door, ‘Now, 
Aunt Jessica, do you remember the little boy you used to smack 
and fondle? I’ll trouble you for a check representing three- 
quarters of your fortune, or you’ll be handed over to the police 
for bigamy and marriage within the prohibited degrees. Tab- 
leau. Collapse of Aunt . . . How’s that?” 

“I’m afraid — very original; but a trifle difficult to work 
out.” 

Miss Pace looked disappointed. “That’s me all over. I’ve 
no end of ideas — more ideas than I have hairpins in my head. 
The worst of it is, so few of them will work out . . . It’s 
worth your while thinking over what I say, though. I should 
certainly have a shot at a curtain raiser at the very least. It 
won’t take you longer than a couple of short stories, and you 
stand to make fifty times as much if it catches on — Coming, 
Susie.” 

For Miss Susie Bremner, growing impatient, had just banged 
at the door to ask if they were never coming — it was nearly 
half-past seven already. 

They crossed the Marsh ; it lay under a somber sky in which 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 387 

black clouds played blind-cloud’s bluff, and it was spitting rain. 
A depressing evening. A depressing district. On this bleak 
waste, medieval lepers might have mourned lost health, friends, 
home. Under this sky and in this place, in ancient days those 
possessed might have wandered in their agony. Here Dante’s 
lost souls might have passed their few remaining years of miser- 
able existence. On this twisted and stunted tree, Judas, after 
the great betrayal, after the flinging back of the now useless 
bribe — Judas, flying, in the isolated horror of that incredible 
awakening, from the haunts of men with whom he had no more 
lot or part, might have hanged himself. 

Ledgar shivered ; someone passed across his grave. 

He was glad when they reached the Pigg’s Marsh Athenaeum. 
It was a misnomer; the building stood at some little distance 
from the Marsh, at the beginning of a thriving residential 
quarter. Here again you had the small things of this world 
confounding the mighty and the great. By force of intellect, 
little, despised Pigg’s Marsh was drawing aristocratic Streat- 
ham ?jid Wimbledon from their firesides on this bleak night. 
Quite well-clad people were flocking in ; cabs, and even a couple 
of broughams, stood at the doors, their lamps blurred in the 
dank night air. The Hall was already nearly full. “My dear, 
we’re going to have a treat. I heard him years ago at Langham 
Place. An extraordinary man. A man with immense influ- 
ence ; such a figure as in the Middle Ages moved cities to terror 
and repentence and ecstasy.” 

On the platform stood a small harmonium, a few palms in 
green tubs, and a table at which Mr. Brewster, President and 
Chairman, was sitting. He looked at his watch ; someone came 
in and whispered. Mr. Brewster glanced significantly at the 
audience and went out. He returned a few moments later, 
amid much hand-clapping, with an elderly man, his gray hair 
tonsured, his rotund form in monk’s robe with cowl and girdle, 
his bare feet in sandals. A rubicund face in which austerity 
and jollity, denunciation and benediction, seemed most curi- 
ously and even drolly blended. A Luther of the cafe chantant. 


388 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

A Savonarola of the music-halls. So Ledgar, watching now 
with keen interest, placed him. 

Mr. Brewster introduced the lecturer in a few well-chosen 
remarks. As Father Hilarius had engaged not to give a ser- 
mon, he did not open his remarks with prayers either for the 
congregation or for little country girls biting their nails. But 
he sat down at the harmonium, and played two or three Gre- 
gorian chants before commencing. His squat, round body rolled 
from side to side; he lifted a sonorous and not unmusical voice; 
now and then he broke off to address the audience quite fa- 
miliarly. “How do you like that? They sang it at Ely first, 
a thousand years ago. And I sang it myself last year at Ely. 
. * . I could tell you a strange little story about this. A noble- 
man I know — Lord Q, let’s call him, not old Q, you know, but 
almost as notorious a character — had been divorced from his 
wife. He heard me preach in London, and I sang that. He 
got up with tears in his eyes. ‘I request your prayers and the 
prayers of this audience. Father, that my wife and I may be 
brought into harmony again.’ Some people don’t believe in 
answers to prayer. His wife was in the audience, and they left 
the hall together.” (Mild sensation; claps from Pigg’s Marsh, 
murmurs of interest, wonder and approval from Wimbledon 
and Streatham.) 

Father Hilarius whirred round on his music-stool for the 
last time. He mopped the bald patch on his tonsured head — 
now showing beads of perspiration — with a colored handkerchief 
from his girdle. “Now I promised not to talk shop or preach,” 
he said. “I’m bound to preach; I can’t help preaching; but 
I’ll let you down as lightly as I can. This is a lecture, and my 
subject is Anti-Christ. A very dry one too, you’ll say. Who 
believes in Anti-Christ nowadays? Well, I do, if you don’t. 
Or who cares twopence about Anti-Christ? I do. Because 
there is only one person in the history of humanity more im- 
portant than Anti-Christ. That — praise God ! — is Jesus Christ. 
There is only one event in the history of humanity more im- 
portant than the coming of Anti-Christ. That is the Cm- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 389 

cifixion.” He dashed to the harmonium, and played and 
sang: 

*^lVhen I survey the wondrous Cross 
On which the Prince of Glory died. 

My richest gain I count but loss. 

And pour contempt on all my pride.** 

Back again to the platform-front. “No good fumbling with 
your Bible, my dear old gentleman in the evening things and 
eye-glass. It’s a lecture, not a sermon. There isn’t any text. 
Or, if there is, my text is the whole of a musty old parchment 
I picked up in a worm-eaten leather chest at a monastery in 
Messina. It is written in a sort of dog-Latin by Messer Ercole 
Corbario, Agent or Steward to a Prince Felipe Corsini of the 
Palazzo Corsini in the Sicilian Golden Valley during the early 
part of the fifteenth century. The document is headed ‘An 
Account of the Strange Life of my Late Master, Prince Felipe 
Corsini; with particulars of his Trial on Accusation of Wiz- 
ardry and of being Anti-Christ before the Ecclesiastical Court 
at Palermo; together with the circumstances of his lamentable 
end. Written by me, Ercole Corbario, at the Palazzo Corsini, 
January, 1437.’ 

“The document, compiled evidently by a faithful but much 
perplexed and distressed servant, commenced with an account 
of the Prince’s boyhood in Calabria. He was not — said Messer 
Corbario, who knew him even then — like other lads of his age, 
fond of games and sports; but withdrew himself from the so- 
ciety of his equals, loving rather to sit lonely by the sea-shore, 
than to join them in hawking or the chase, and preferring to 
play with stones and metals rather than with rapier or stiletto. 
As a lad, he was of a pale, melancholy cast of countenance, 
with large, dark eyes of unequal size ; of a sullen temper, moved 
often by trifling matters to anger; proud exceedingly; generous 
rather because he cared little for his possessions than from 
benevolence of heart. At the age of fifteen he came to the 


390 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Palace in Sicily with his mother; and he lived there, with fre- 
quent intermissions, now to visit Rome, now Calabria, once 
Paris, until his death. He spent the greater part of his time in 
a chamber or vault dug in the solid rock of Monte Pellegrini, 
to the base of which the Palace grounds extended. Here Cor- 
bario was his constant attendant. The chamber seems to have 
been just the ordinary laboratory of the alchemist; it was filled 
with crucibles and alembics; here also the Prince made experi- 
ments with winged machines in which he sought to fly . . . 
That,’^ said Father Hilarius in an aside, “has been, of course, 
an ambition of mankind from the very earliest times. Dr. 
Johnson in ‘Rasselas’ devotes one chapter to an invention for 
this purpose.” 

Curious, thought Ledgar, how the idea of flight seems in- 
separable from the coming of Anti-Christ. If men fly, I shall 
begin to look for the fulfillment of Maurice’s predictions. 

“In this chamber, not only was search made for the philoso- 
pher’s stone, but many experiments were made on the bodies 
of living animals ; once even on a vassal under sentence of death. 
My Master, said Messer Corbario — who seemed himself to 
have nerves — was not cruel, but he could regard suffering with 
complete composure and even with interest; unhuman rather 
than inhuman, he seemed to detach himself from the emotions 
of ordinary men. He paid external homage to religion, but in 
his heart regarded it lightly. His was a cold nature, devoid of 
passion; though he had secret lusts which he gratified rather, 
it seemed, for experiment and interest than for the gratification 
of desire. At the age of twenty-one he married a lady to whom 
he had been long betrothed. But at the conclusion of the mar- 
riage feast, to the astonishment of his bride and guests, he rose 
and said courteously that he had felt constrained to hold binding 
an agreement which had been made so long; nevertheless for 
himself he had no mind for married life ; he returned the lady 
with good wishes to her mother’s keeping. If she had had male 
kinsfolk of near blood, thought Ercole, it would have fared 
ill then with his Master. As it was, this added to an unpopu- 


(The Rise of Redgar Dunstan 391 

larity already engendered by knowledge of his secret quests 
and practices. A discharged servant gave information against 
him on the ground of blasphemy; but of this Corbario himself 
had seen nothing. A court sat at Palermo to take the evidence. 
Peasants related that descending the slopes of Pellegrini at 
night they had heard shrieks of pain and other uncanny sounds 
proceeding from the Palace gardens. Some asserted that spells 
had been cast upon their cattle. One man (but he was an ill- 
liver, and with an ever-open palm for bribes) stated that his son 
had been turned into a mule, like that lad whom the boy- 
Savior — according to a certain Apocryphal Gospel — had once 
cured. And another servant deposed that he had gone one night 
to a notoriously ill-famed house in the slums by Palermo harbor 
to buy poisons and simples for his Master . . . But the Prince 
had great influence in the island; his cousin was a member of 
the Court that tried him, and he was released. Howling mobs 
followed him down the palm avenue leading to the Palazzo. 
In fear, for a time, of his life, he decided to pay a visit to the 
Court of the French King, and set out with Ercole and some 
servants who were faithful to him. And here came the extra- 
ordinary part of the document. When they reached Paris, they 
found the city full owing to a visit of the Duke Basil of Russia; 
it was difficult to find accommodation, but at last they secured 
rooms at an inn in the Street of the Old Lantern, just within 
the city walls. Tired with traveling, the Prince at once sought 
his apartment. He told Ercole to come to him in an hour, 
when the evening meal was to be served. The Prince showed 
signs of fatigue and agitation ; Ercole says he heard him mutter 
some words, which sounded like ‘It is just; I am coming, I am 
coming.* An hour later Ercole went to his master’s room. He 
knew the location of the room without possibility of mistake; 
yet evei;ything within was changed. Tapestries showing only 
an hour before scenes of the chase, showed now a gloomy 
tableau of the death of Hector. The bed, draped before in rose 
and gold, was covered now with somber purple, and dark 
plumes rose above it. But the bed was empty. The room was 


392 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

empty. Ercole, in amazement, sent for the host ; he denied that 
anyone had occupied the room. The drawer who had ushered 
them in so short a time before denied that he had done so . . . 
The ostlers who had stabled their horses professed no recollec- 
tion of the Prince. The officials of the city were called upon ; 
they knew the house and the host well; it was a reputable 
house, in which there was no possibility of foul play ... In 
the apartment, stated Ercole, the smell of brimstone was dis- 
tinctly noticeable . . . Ercole returned alone to Palermo. He 
wrote his document obviously as an honest man, attached to his 
master yet against his will almost convinced that the charges 
brought against him were true. The parchment concluded with 
the name of Prince Felipe, ‘On whose soul,* wrote Ercole — 
and then were the words ‘had he still’ — crossed through by 
charitable and kindly impulse, ‘Jesu have mercy.’ ” 

Ledgar listened to this narrative with some interest. “The 
man’s a charlatan,” he thought at its close. The last words 
of the Prince were simply those of Alexander the Sixth, into 
whose room the devil leapt in the form of a baboon as his 
wretched spirit left its tabernacle. There, too, the waiting 
cardinals had smelt the brimstone of the pit. The mysterious 
disappearance in Paris was based on a well-known story of the 
recent Exhibition. A mother and daughter, traveling from 
Constantinople, took rooms at a hotel. Going to her mother’s 
room an hour after the arrival, the daughter found its contents 
and appearance entirely altered (the somber panoply of death 
was but an added stroke) and her mother missing. Here, too, 
a similar reply met all her inquiries. Her mother had simply 
disappeared from the world of human beings; there was no 
trace, and the daughter returned to England without her. A 
year later the mystery was solved. Immediately after the 
mother had entered her room the bell rang; a chambermaid, 
answering it, found her at the point of death. It was discov- 
ered that it was a case of plague contracted in the East. Such a 
fact, becoming known, would ruin the prospects of the exhibi- 
tion. The room was at once refurnished and re-papered; the 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 393 

body smuggled out and cremated; the visitors’ book tampered 
with; servants bribed to deny all knowledge. Father Hilarius 
was too astute to supply any solution to his mystery. In the 
fifteenth century, an isolated case of plague — even on the oc- 
casion of the Duke of Russia’s visit — would have called for no 
such drastic action. 

Ledgar listened, however, with some interest to the continua- 
tion of the lecture. “That document is my text,” said Father 
Hilarius; “here in a medieval setting you have one instance of 
what was then sufficiently common. Anti-Christ; a proud 
man detaching himself from humanity, aping the place of God ; 
selling his soul to Satan; suspected and accused of it by his 
neighbors. There were scores of such cases. But that musty 
document had turned his thoughts to a subject of which he then 
knew very little. Anti-Christ. The one being who should 
stand out as the enemy, the antithesis of Christ and of all that 
was Christ-like. Men believed in it then. Monks wrote 
treatises about it, and pored over black-letter volumes and 
manuscripts; schoolmen puzzled in the scriptorium about the 
number of the beast. But men don’t believe it now. Four 
hundred years ago you could tell another that you suspected a 
man of being Anti-Christ; in five minutes half a thousand 
people would be howling about his heels. Tell someone the 
same thing now ; you will be looked at in blank amazement, and 
clapped into an asylum. If you want to raise a city about a 
man, tell them when war is on that you suspect him of being 
pro-enemy; tell them now that you suspect him of being in 
sympathy with female suffrage. You don’t believe the old 
things now. You don’t.” He embraced his audience in a 
comprehensive gesture. “Who cares about God, about spirits 
and devils, about fairies, about Judgment, about Hell? Things 
that were alive and very real to our fathers, are dead now; 
crushed to death by the steam engine and the motor-car, stran- 
gled by telegraph wire and telephone, silenced by the gramo- 
phone. You sit in your pews at church. It is the proper thing 
still; it is respectable; you are on the safe side. But belief! 


394 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

What are you thinking about when you kneel, bow at the name 
of Christ, cross yourselves, recite the Creed glibly, sing the 
hymns set before you? The young girl of her marriage; the 
young man of his sport; the middle-aged man of his business; 
the old man — that all is vanity and vexation of spirit; that 
things once fixed and certain have become incredible. No, you 
do not believe. They take their census of church and chapel 
goers; whine their jeremiads about the decay of public worship. 
What of the people who do still fill the churches; the people 
who retain the form and have lost the spirit of belief ? Science 
won’t let you believe. Science !” He snapped his fingers. “My 
dear old lady, playing with your lorgnette in the third row, 
every Sunday you say you believe in the Resurrection of the 
Body, and that God shall come to Judge the Quick and the 
Dead. If I were to take you to a cemetery tonight, all of you, 
and the graves were suddenly to open — you’d be as much sur- 
prised as the most hardened atheist in the audience. And so 
would you, my dear sir, with the long white beard and bald 
head in the fifth row, wondering now what folly induced you 
on an inclement night to leave your fireside . . . But these 
things are true. As true now as they were two thousand years 
ago when Christ preached them among the hills and on the 
shores of Galilee. Young lady nibbling chocolates and thinking 
how much prettier your frock is than your neighbors’, you will 
have to stand before the Judgment-seat of God. It is true, and 
it is coming, that great and notable day — 

''Dies tree ” 

He bounced to the harmonium. 

"Dies iree, dies ilia, 

Solvet sceclum in favilla. 

Teste David cum Sibylla, 

"Quantus tremor est futurus 
Quando Judex est venturus, 

Cuncta stricta discussurus. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 395 

"T uba mirum spargens sonum 
Per sepulchra regionum; 

Coget omnes ante thronumP 

Back again, his face glowing. 

“And so Anti-Christ has gone the way of all the rest. Of 
course, what St. John prophesied still stands. But I never 
read of him, never heard him spoken of, never thought of him, 
for years, until the other day. I was coming here to lecture. 
I wanted a new subject, and prayed for guidance. I glanced 
at random at two books. A novel; a volume of short stories. 
And the first word I saw in the novel was Anti-Christ. And 
the first word I saw in the book of short stories was Anti-Christ. 
Coincidence? Inspiration? As you please. Only, these ‘coin- 
cidences* in my life have been so common ... You can’t 
see what is going on underneath it all. Why lecture on a 
musty, fusty, forgotten subject in which no one nowadays is 
interested or believes? Wait a minute. What if some young 
man in my audience may be taking that path which will end, 
unless he turns in time, in his filling that awful role in the 
history of humanity? A young man not living his life prop- 
erly. A young man given over to selfishness, sensuality, self- 
indulgence. A young man hating where he should love. A 
young man proud where he should be humble — in the presence 
of his God. A young man trying to solve the riddle by sur- 
render, not by conflict; by speculation and sterile dreaming 
rather than by submission and obedience. A young man think- 
ing in his conceit to stand alone ; placing himself on an equality 
with God; imagining that by destroying, by breaking himself 
and all around him in pieces, he can know where others only 
guess ... I took the hint. I read again my old document 
from Messina. I found all I could find about that wicked man 
of whose coming prophecy has whispered as it has whispered of 
a reign of Christ on earth.” 

Father Hilarius traced briefly the history of the idea of 
Anti-Christ. Ledgar was interested, even mildly amused, for 


39 ^ The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

the phrasing of the old chroniclers was often quaint, and the 
lecturer had a sense of humor. Yet he thought, “This is a 
wasted evening; it was not worth the crossing of London.” 
Father Hilarius dealt first with Bible prophecies and proto- 
types: Gog coming out of Magog in Ezekiel; Antiochus 
Epiphanes; Esau selling his birthright; Nebuchadnezzar driven 
out to eat grass among the beasts of the field ; Herod eaten by 
worms for placing himself on a level with the Most High. He 
sketched in a few sentences, terse but graphic, the reigns of the 
Emperors; the insane luxury of Caligula; his attempt to set 
tip his own image in the Jewish temple; Commodus and the 
vicious surroundings of Capri — man bestial and cruel amid the 
glories of nature; Nero, whose name, Kaesar Neron, formed 
the number of the beast; his ferocious cruelty; the burning of 
Rome; the slaughter of the Christians; his wretched suicide 
under compulsion of his enemies. The artistic temperament in 
him degenerating into madness. Then Armillus of the later 
Jews; a golden-haired giant, twelve ells in height and breadth, 
with the width of a span between his deep red eyes. Islam 
even had its Anti-Christ; the one-eyed Masih al Dajjal, on 
whose forehead were to be the letters C.F.R. — Cafir, infidel. 
With a following of seventy thousand disciples, he was to ride 
on an ass in triumph, and reign forty days until slain by Jesus 
and the Imam Mahedi, after which Islam and Christianity 
would unite. And here, said the lecturer, you have exactly in 
Moslem tradition what is foreshadowed in the Bible; Anti- 
Christ, the Battle between good and evil in which good is trium- 
phant, and the reign of Christ on earth bringing together at last 
the sheep of different folds. The Emperor Frederick the Sec- 
ond — Leonardo da Vinci — the Pope himself — all these and many 
more had in different ages brought upon themselves this 
suspicion. 

Yet Anti-Christ had not yet come. He was coming. How? 
In what form? There were many prophecies. A great mon- 
arch, said some, plunging the earth into universal war. “It 
has been said,” runs the sixteenth-century prophecy of Frater 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 397 

Johannes, “that twenty centuries after the Incarnation of the 
Word, the Beast will be incarnate in his turn, and will menace 
the earth with as many evils as the Divine Incarnation has 
brought it graces. Towards the year 2000 Anti-Christ will 
be made manifest. His army will surpass in number anything 
that can be imagined. There will be Christians among his 
cohorts, and there will be Mahommedan and heathen soldiers 
among the defenders of the Lamb. 

“That is one prophecy. There are many to the same effect. 
The prediction of Dom Bosco, the Portuguese; of the Jesuit, 
Bobola; of Father Vianney, the Cure d’Ars; of Madame de 
Thebes. But Tolstoi’s vision speaks not of an Emperor or 
King, but of some journalist or writer who will arise out of 
the chaos of Armageddon, and in whose grip most of Europe 
will remain until 1925. 

“And then in his place will come a great reformer, a Mon- 
golian-Slav, who will inaugurate a new era of peace and hap- 
piness for the world. 

“Potentate or subject, Christian or Moslem, British or Slav 
or Teuton, I am convinced of this — continued the lecturer — 
the coming of this man of sin is nearer than many of us 
think. There are wars and rumors of war. Already in the 
year that has just closed ^ we have seen a struggle between 
nations which may be but the portent and precursor of Ar- 
mageddon. Europe is an armed camp. There is bitterness, 
rivalry, dissension everywhere ; everywhere unrest. Old 
faiths are crumbling. The old stone gods stir again in their 
thousand-year sleep ; Thor — as Heine said — ^waits only for the 
gage to be flung down, to shatter with his hammer the Gothic 
cathedrals men have built in love and reverence during long 
ages. Humanity stands at the cross-roads of its history. Sci- 
ence has hacked to pieces with scalpel and bistoury all that 
we once held inviolable and dear. The Holy of Holies is not 

♦This lecture is supposed to be delivered in the beginning of 1913, 
eighteen months before the conclusion of the story. Ledgar Dunstan 
was at this time thirty-three years old. — Author’s Note. 


398 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Spared; the Impregnable Rock breaks beneath the mallet and 
chisel of the geologist; under the microscope keen eyes peer 
into the secrets of the Almighty. Nothing is certain. Nothing 
is true. We stand on shifting quicksands, under skies ominous 
with doom.” 

He broke off to castigate the vice, the luxury, the selfishness, 
the effeminacy of modern life. As Ledgar knew, it was his 
favorite topic. “A Savonarola of the music halls.” Yet he 
had power ; he was in grim earnest ; he swayed his audience now 
as the Florentine had moved and swayed those dead-and-gone 
people to whom he preached . . . The whips with which other 
preachers lashed their congregation were scorpions in his hands. 
In their pride, in their perplexity, men were throwing aside 
the shackles and trammels of old belief. He entered into a 
category of sins; gave many instances that had come under 
his notice during his circuit of the country. His audience 
pricked up their ears; looked shocked, yet vastly interested and 
expectant. Ledgar noticed the sudden movement swaying them, 
as he turned from history and prophecy to this new theme. 
“Now we’re going to hear something,” the intent faces in the 
white light of the arc lamp seemed to say. Out of the vices of 
Society he had made his reputation. Ledgar glanced round 
him with amusement. How people love to be castigated — 
from a safe distance! How keenly they watch for the dis- 
comfiture of their neighbors! How they enjoy seeing the screen 
drawn aside from lurking vice — when the hand that draws 
it back is pious and discreet! He thought of Mark Twain 
watching the cancan in Paris; holding his hands before his 
face for shame and horror — but looking through his fin- 
gers. 

“But you may go too far,” cried the preacher, raising his 
voice and shaking a warning finger at his audience. “The mercy 
of God is great, but the sin of man may outrun it. You see- 
in these cases men given over to cruelty, to excess of every 
kind, to unbridled sensuality. For them in death, nothing 
but a fearful looking forward to judgment. Yet the ultimate 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 399 

limit of the goodness of God has not yet been reached. When 
that man comes, who shall call God evil, love hate; who shall 
resist the Spirit to the very last and fall unshriven and unre- 
pentant from the Everlasting Arms — then the day and reign 
of Anti-Christ on earth is come. He is near, he is at hand; 
this man who shall set himself impiously in the seat of God, 
and be hurled down as Lucifer was hurled down in his swell- 
ing pride and hatred. I see it; in vision I see his coming.** 
He paused for a few moments, his face rapt, mystical, peering 
into a future the secrets of which the eyes of his audience could 
not penetrate. “A fine actor,’* thought Ledgar; yet he car- 
ried in his tone and manner conviction to the hearts of some 
who heard him. Strange mixture of seer and charlatan; im- 
postor and enthusiast; of the fifteenth century and the dawn- 
ing twentieth. *‘A face, pallid, hopeless, unutterably sad . . . 
He lives now among men. Where, I know not; perhaps in 
some moujik’s hut among the Russian pines; perhaps in some 
continental palace; perhaps in a mushroom city among West- 
ern prairies or foothills — perhaps here. Perhaps here, in this 
room. God knows. The man who would not fight for his 
salvation; who would make no effort; who thrust aside the 
offered Cross as too heavy a burden. The shirker. The man 
who tries to crawl round, to sneak under, that barrier which 
one must leap over to become a man at all. Because that is 
all faith is — ^jumping. Shut your eyes and jump. When 
you’re over you’ll find plenty of reasons.” 

“He talks a great deal of nonsense,” Ledgar whispered to 
Selina Pace. Yet a tiny memory crept into his mind of the 
kitten in the confectioner’s shop when they were spearing 
cakes. Sulky or frightened, instead of jumping as It could have 
done with a little effort, it edged away from the broomstick, 
or tried to crawl under It. And whenever it fell back, the 
barrier followed it ; and whenever it crawled under, the barrier 
fell across its neck or back. 

“And so,” continued Father Hllarlus, “this wretched being 
— a coward, a hypocrite playing at life — will say to his Heav- 


400 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

enly Father and Creator, ‘I cannot bother. You ask too many 
sacrifices.* And to Christ: 

***Wilt Thou yet take all, Galilean? But these Thou shalt 
not take. 

The laurel, the palms and the paan, the breasts of the 
nymphs in the brake; . . . 

And all the wings of the loves, and all the joys before 
death! 

Yes; but how does it end? *Thou hast conquered, O pale 
Galilean!' And He will and must conquer; because good is 
stronger than evil; because Christ is stronger than Anti- 
Christ.” 

“Humbug!’* muttered Ledgar. “Why doesn’t he finish his 
lines ? 

'"'The world has grown gray from Thy breath!** 

“My friends,” continued the lecturer, turned openly 
preacher at last, “the world stands on the brink of a tremen- 
dous cataclysm. Pray God that you may have no share in 
causing it. I thank God that I cannot. ‘The Son of God 
goes forth to war; who follows in His train?’ I do and will. 
Will you? Join me, then, in a prayer that amidst the dark- 
ness and horrors coming upon the world, you and I may be 
kept safe.” 

He went again to the harmonium, and played and sang the 
concluding verse of the Dies Ira: 

*'Ah! that day of tears and mourning! 

From the dust of earth returning 
Man for judgment must prepare him; 

Spare, O God, in mercy spare him. 

Lord, all pitying, Jesu blest. 

Grant us Thine eternal rest. 


Amen!* 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 401 

He came to the front of the platform. 

“The collection will now be taken,” he said with a beam- 
ing smile. 

“While it is being taken,” said Mr. Brewster, “Father 
Hilarius will be pleased to answer any questions.” 

At first no one moved. In front, a middle-aged man was 
being nudged by two rather pretty daughters. “Go on. Fa- 
ther.” “Nonsense, my dear.” 

Susie Bremner was very bold. “I should like to ask,” she 
said in a clear, shrill voice, “whether the lecturer thinks that 
by any possibility a woman might be Anti-Christ.” 

“Possibly. I do not think it probable. That question has, 
of course, been discussed by the schoolmen, who discussed 
everything — how many angels on a needle point, the notable 
instance. But everything in prophecy and history seems to 
indicate a man. Not an ordinary man, I think; a man of 
great gifts and opportunities, but also of great handicaps. 
Possibly a man of genius, who is either too lazy and too care- 
less to utilize his gifts, or who does not realize his own ca- 
pacity. Any other questions?” He rubbed his fat hands, and 
beamed upon his audience. “They try to do us women out 
of everything,” growled Susie, who was an ardent suffragette. 
“He knows no more about Anti-Christ than I do. I believe 
it’s a kind of theological Mrs. Harris; there’s no sich person.” 

“If there was,” said Selina, “I believe it was Nebuchad- 
nezzar. A man who would sell his wife for a pair of shoes 
would be capable of anything.” 

A thin young man in spectacles rose to ask an absurd and 
irrelevant question. He was disposed of so crushingly that 
no one else seemed inclined to rise. Mr. Brewster was about 
to close the proceedings with a final word of thanks, when 
Ledgar, who hitherto had hesitated, rose to his feet. 

“I have listened with interest,” he said, “to the lecture. “A 
lady on my right has just suggested that Anti-Christ resem- 
bles Mrs. Gamp's intimate friend; there’s no sich person. I 
am inclined to agree with her. But there’s one point I should 


402 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

like to raise. Supposing Anti-Christ should come, causing this 
convulsion which is supposed to follow the complete victory 
of evil over good. Supposing a man who is incarnate evil — 
not a man, but an animal — not an animal, but a pest still 
in human shape — soulless (I am assuming the soul and the 
possibility of its loss), would he then really be revealed? And 
how could he be revealed? Supposing Anti-Christ is a man 
fascinated by the idea of Hell, who sets out in more or less 
deliberate quest of it. Or I’ll put it in the form of an alle- 
gory. A man in a country village hears about a volcano in 
Italy. People are always telling him about it. He is of an 
inquisitive nature; he determines to explore it. The idea fas- 
cinates him. People warn him to stay at home; but he starts 
on his quest. He reaches the foot of the volcano, mounts 
arduously to the summit; thinks, ‘I shall know whether what 
these people say is true. I shall know the last word about 
volcanoes. I shall go back and tell them all about it; settle 
the question in which they all seem so interested, once and 
for all.’ He falls over into the crater before he quite realizes 
what has happened . . . Now my point is this: how will any- 
one know of his experience? He cannot return. People will 
know, perhaps, that someone is missing; that someone has met 
with a terrible accident. What he discovered; what his 
thoughts were as he fell helplessly among the molten lava, he 
and he only, it seems to me, can ever know.” 

Father Hilarius rose to his feet. “Our friend has asked 
a very pertinent question. I will attempt to answer it. But 
the allegory fails at one point. Take a different example. A 
man determines on his own account to explore the Pole. He 
reaches it; discovers all there is to be known. If he could 
return, it is doubtful whether anyone would believe him. But 
he cannot return. Then how is he to send a message to the 
outer world? . . . Perhaps by struggling, almost spent with 
hunger and cold and hardship, to the nearest open sea, where 
he can cast a message on the waters . . . Have you read 
Dante? He writes, you know, of men wandering soulless 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 403 

and in misery on the earth. I think such a being might in 
some way send out his awful message of discovery and lonely 
agony to the world. By speech, perhaps; by argument and 
pieced-together scraps of evidence; by writing. I do not say 
he would be believed at once. Men would discuss and differ, 
as they discuss and differ about any revelation of the inner 
world — as they discussed and differed about Christ Himself. 
Nothing is more striking in the life of our Lord than the 
almost hopeless eagerness with which He sought to make men 
believe Him. ‘Why will you not believe? Why will you not 
listen? What I say is true. The secret and the mystery hid- 
den from you, I know.* ‘How does He know?’ men asked 
scornfully ... You see we have round us an opaque wall, 
hidden by leaves and moss, by weeds and creepers and lichen. 
From time to time, by thought and prayer and effort and 
obedience to the inner light, men clear away a little of the 
tangle and find Doors. And the Doors open a little to their 
knocking; and they call out to their fellows, ‘Come and see 
what I have found out. Come and see the blaze of glory — the 
wonderful, amazing things — that I can see.’ Moses opened 
such a Door; its name was Law. Mahomet opened such a 
Door; its name was Abstinence. Buddha opened such a Door 
— Quietude and Contemplation. But Christ opened the 
widest Door of all. Its names were Love and Sacrifice. And 
by and by ft will be found that all these other doors are only 
wicket-gates forming part of it . . . Anti-Christ will be too 
proud to stoop before any of these doors; too lazy to find one 
for himself. He will break through the wall. And while he 
is leaning over, calling to those round him, ‘Come and see 
the glory on the other side!’ he will fall through and be con- 
sumed. Because, you see, he has found out in the wrong 
way.” 

The lecturer turned to Mr. Brewster, who rose and an- 
nounced that the collection amounted to <£3 9s. 8d. 

“An extraordinary man,” said Ledgar, as they left the hall. 
“Very intelligent; yet did you see how his eyes glittered when 


404 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

the collection was announced? But what he says seems to me 
for the most part entirely speculative.” 

“Well, I warned you that you’d be bored,” said Selina. “As 
I don’t profess to believe in Christ, I’m not at all inclined to 
believe in Anti-Christ. You might just as well talk to me 
about Anti-Mahomet, or Anti-Kruger, or Anti-Pankhurst.” 

“Oh, I wasn’t bored,” said Ledgar. “Thank you very much 
indeed. Good night.” 

It was drizzling as he walked to the station. Only three 
or four persons were on the platform. He entered a first- 
class carriage, but at the last moment, seeing the two pretty 
girls whom he had noticed with their father in the audience, 
changed into the second-class in which they had taken their 
seats . . . Or were they pretty? He could not tell. He 
thought Mary handsome; he could not say. What a welter 
of confusion everything was! He never did really know, 
like other people — like Tidmarsh, for instance — whether a girl 
was pretty. Why couldn’t he have fallen head over heels in 
love with Winnie, with Mary, like anyone else? 

For the last few months he had been a member of a small 
literary club which met in Fleet Street. Here a few jour- 
nalists and city men with bookish tastes met once a fortnight 
to discuss questions relating principally to literary property 
and the book market. Sometimes they discussed lighter and 
more frivolous topics, such as the Survival of Human Per- 
sonality after Death, or Esoteric Buddhism. At the last meet- 
ing a speaker had said, “It is a great factor of success in life 
that a man should be strongly sexed.” Men who were not 
certainly did sometimes achieve greatness; Ruskin, for instance, 
and Carlyle. But it was touch and go, even with them; as 
easily — far more easily than other men — they might have come 
to disaster. Ledgar wished he were sufficiently strongly sexed 
to fall desperately in love. He was fond of Mary; he knew 
now that he loved Winnie. But he was in love with 
neither . . . He wondered, mistrusting his own judgment, 
whether these two girls in the railway carriage were pretty 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 405 

according to Tidmarsh’s standard. He thought perhaps they 
were. They certainly looked jolly and companionable. The 
father was reading his paper. Ledgar looked hard at the two 
girls; the elder returned his stare with a stony glance, and 
sheltered behind the pages of a magazine; the younger seemed 
responsive. Ledgar moved his foot an inch or two so that 
it touched hers. She may or may not have perceived the action ; 
in any case she took no notice. It was, he knew, an absurd 
thing to do. Once, giving Jelf the benefit of an introspective 
study, he had described some similar incident in a tramcar. 
In this case the girl’s brother was in the car. 

“Whatever for?” Jelf had asked. “Not much satisfaction in 
that.” 

“No ... I don’t know. Fm just telling you the sort of 
thing that goes on inside me. In the first place, it’s something 
secret; nobody knows. Without being flagrant, it’s a breach 
of convention. That appeals to me. Somehow it gives me a 
sense of company. And then it’s an experiment in sensation; 
it gives me, perhaps, the tiniest thrill of excitement.” 

“If anyone used my sister as a kind of galvanic battery 
in a public vehicle,” Jelf had said, “I should feel inclined to 
punch his head.” 

“Oh, I know it’s appalling,” said Ledgar, puffing at his 
pipe. At the same time he had thought to himself, “Why? 
Probably the girl doesn’t even notice ; she’s none the worse. . . . 
People go to a public gallery and look calmly at the ‘Rape of 
the Sabines.* They know how ancient the world is, how many 
people there are and have been in it, what goes on and has 
gone on in it . . . And some trifling incident in a tramcar 
sets them in a flaming fury. Odd little mortals.” He did 
not say all this to Jelf, who would simply have replied, 
“Naturally enough; it’s the impulse and instinct to preserve 
yourself and those you care for.” 

He did say, “There’s another thing I notice about myself. 
The other day I was walking down Tottenham Court Road. 
A middle-aged woman was dancing by herself, very solemnly. 


4 o 6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

to a barrel organ. A tiny little creature, very ugly, with 
dark hair plastered down over her forehead; when she hitched 
up her dress with both hands, she showed white stockings and 
side-spring boots. I saw one or two men pass, and they simply 
turned their heads and smiled. I watched her for a quarter 
of an hour. Couldn’t help myself; she fascinated me. A 
pretty girl dancing would have presented nothing like the 
attraction.” 

“My dear Ledgar,” said Jelf, impatiently, “you’re either 
very young or very simple — or both. Of course, the ugly fas- 
cinates you. The ugly is sin; it may in course of time occur 
to you that sin does fascinate. There was a case some time 
ago at one of the great hospitals. A very brilliant young stu- 
dent was alone in the receiving room with an East-End girl. 
She was undersized, dirty, repulsive in appearance. Because 
of the fascination of the ugly he wrecked his whole career; 
is living now, I believe, in some remote corner of Spain. It’s 
a peculiar danger of your temperament. Temptation takes 
the insidious form — took the insidious form in this case — 
that the ugly does not matter. If the girl had been clean 
and beautiful, he would have remembered the moral code, and 
saved his career” . . . 

The girls and their father got out at the next station; Led- 
gar was left alone. The wretchedness of the night, the lecture, 
his loneliness, his recent conduct as a small contributory cause, 
made him intensely depressed. He wished himself safely mar- 
ried to Mary, and congratulated himself that, in that matter 
at least, he had made his jump. They were engaged; there 
was something actually accomplished. But his very anxiety 
to be married — now that he was committed to this state — • 
almost frightened him. He was irritated, too, by the lec- 
turer’s insistence upon Christ. Christ, Christ! Come to 
Christ! They were like people clucking invitations to a fowl 
to take its food. Charlatan or not. Father Hilarius was a 
clever, intelligent man, with some knowledge. He had 
spoken of Apocryphal Gospels, full of absurdities — once ac- 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 407 

cepted by Christendom, now rejected; he had spoken of 
Buddha and Mahomet. And then the old cry — “Lord all 
pitying, Jesu blest — ” He could not get away from it; from 
childhood the cry had met and followed him everywhere. He 
did not, could not, would not believe; and at the same tfme 
he could not shake himself free. Miss Pace said in the calmest, 
easiest, matter-of-fact way, that Christ and Anti-Christ alike 
were nothing to her. She was afraid of no wrath of God. 
He cursed his puritanic training, brought in conflict, as he told 
himself, with experience and modern thought. One could 
neither accept nor reject. . . 

He was drenched to the skin when he reached his cham- 
bers. The fire was out; one of Mrs. Folley’s heart attacks 
seemed to have blotted his supper from her memory. He 
shivered, and remembered that he had shivered in crossing the 
marsh. “I’m sure I’m in for influenza,” he said, as he drew 
the cold sheets round him. 


CHAPTER XIV 


L EDGAR woke with a racking headache and a tempera- 
ture. He shared to some extent Aunt Eliza’s dread of 
illness, and his nervousness was not allayed by Mrs. 
Folley, who — having been chased from his bedside — took her 
revenge by flopping down on her knees outside his door and 
reciting the prayers for the dying in a whining monotone. The 
doctor announced influenza, the primary cause being a generally 
run-down condition. During convalescence Bournemouth was 
suggested, and as far as possible a change of work and in- 
terests for some little time to come. Quarter-day was at hand, 
and he decided to give up his chambers and warehouse his 
books and furniture until he and Mary had decided on a per- 
manent home. Mrs. Folley tried in vain to induce him to 
alter his decision. Other means failing, she startled him one 
afternoon by creeping stealthily into his room, her eyes fixed 
but glaring; and, drawing step by step nearer with the air 
of a serpent fascinating its prey, waved long, talon-like fingers 
in his face. Mad — or a heart attack? Ledgar drove her 
away at last, crestfallen. The discovery afterwards of an 
American pamphlet explaining how you could hypnotize any- 
one into doing exactly what you wanted showed the motive 
of her conduct. When the day of departure actually arrived, 
she presented him mournfully with a tract bearing the alluring 
title, “Are You a Goat?” 

Pines and blue sea soon improved his health and spirits. 
They reminded him also of Robert Louis Stevenson, who had 
wintered here; he re-read several of his books. In one of the 
“New Arabian Nights” stories he found a hint which resulted 
eventually in the scenario of a small play. “The Sieur de 
Maletroit’s Door” describes a young man, in medieval France, 
trapped in error for another; and, at midnight in a strange 

408 


The Rise of Led gar Dunstan 409 

house, given the equally appalling alternatives of sudden mar- 
riage or sudden death. Ledgar laid the scene In Italy — a 
Venetian palazzo; introduced a gondola for picturesqueness; 
took a hint from “Called Back” ; and at last evolved a curtain- 
raiser sufficiently original in plot and treatment to save him 
from the charge of plagiarism. He sent it offi to Telfer. His 
agent replied in a long but somewhat dubious letter. He would 
read the manuscript at once; but if the book market was in 
a bad way, it was nothing to the condition of the play market. 
Anyhow, if he thought anything of it he’d hand it over to 
his brother’s department for disposal. At the same time he 
was not sure that Ledgar was altogether wise in attempting 
a new genre just at present. He was building up a solid repu- 
tation by the short-story work following on the heels of his 
book. A second book ought to mark a distinct advance in his 
prices and reputation. If the curtain-raiser were produced and 
turned out a frost, it might seriously damage his market. If, 
on the other hand, it succeeded and the success were not fol- 
lowed up — well, Dunstan had heard of rockets that came 
down sticks . . . Mr. Telfer used a somewhat hackneyed but 
expressive phrase because of an unfortunate little Incident that 
had happened in his family last Guy Fawkes’ Day. A nephew 
of his had just ignited the touch-paper of a rocket, when his 
little brother, at the voracious age which sticks at nothing, 
had come along and swallowed it . . . Their mother spent 
all her spare time now at the attic window looking through 
a telescope, but he had not yet come down. 

Of course, said Telfer, the curtain-raiser might be disposed 
of under a pen-name; or Dunstan might have sufficient confi- 
dence in himself to be willing to run the risk. 

When he returned to town, Ledgar found that Telfer had 
read the play; thought very well of it; and had handed it 
to the dramatic department, who would do their best with it, 
and had already had one nibble. The news was certainly very 
encouraging. A few days later Ledgar heard that a small 
West End house — the Eclectic — had been on the lookout for 


410 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

something of the kind; an agreement was signed, and the 
piece rushed through its first rehearsals. 

Before the first night he paid a flying visit to South Ger- 
many in order to put finishing touches to his book. He stayed 
a day or two in Bamberg, at Forcheim, the old capital of 
the Prince Bishopric; and spent a week at Stuttgart and in 
its neighborhood. The Wiirttemberg capital pleased him al- 
most as much as any continental city he had yet seen. He 
stayed at a Hospice which had been recommended to him. It 
was of a semi-religious character; but religion in England and 
in Germany mean two different things. You could order in- 
toxicants at meals. You could enjoy your pipe or your cigar 
in the smoking-room. You could play cards in the drawing- 
room. Everything was spotlessly clean; parquet floors dili- 
gently scrubbed and polished every morning; milk-white china 
for the table services; the most delightful of old ladies in a 
snowy mob-cap presiding over everything. Every morning 
and evening there were prayers for the staff; visitors w^re in- 
vited but not pressed to attend. No stigma attached to you 
in any way if you did not care to go. Ledgar heard them 
singing very lustily the old German hymns, ''Ein Feste Burg,*' 
for instance, or at night the evening hymn, ''Nun ruhen alle 
Wdlder** He did not attend the services, but this unobtrusive 
background of religion appeared to him pleasant rather than 
otherwise. It seemed content with declaring itself openly by 
exceptional cleanliness and order. He arrived on Thursday 
night. Friday he devoted to the town itself; the old Palace 
and Schloss-Platz, the Park and its statuary, the churches — one 
beautifully situated on a small lake — the crowded cafes and 
towering blocks of flats. At night he worked in his room. On 
Saturday he went round some galleries, and walked out to 
the King of Wiirttemberg’s hunting forest, a short distance 
from the town. Sunday he devoted to an excursion to the 
hills surrounding Stuttgart. This seemed to be the favorite 
expedition of the natives. From the small inn where he dined, 
you could see the blue distance of the Schwartzwald. A wed- 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 41 1 

ding party, very noisy, were at the inn; they spent the Sunday 
evening in dancing, song, and drinking. Their minister was 
with them, as jovial as any of the others. Ledgar tramped 
part of the way back in the cool blue evening; stars overhead, 
and the lights of the city like stars beneath him. He entered 
the smoking-room of the Hospice glowing from the air and 
exercise. Nearly all the guests were German. Merchants, 
substantial country farmers, a sprinkling of officers in uniform. 
There was a young student from Sweden, punctiliously and 
oppressively polite; he rose and bowed whenever Ledgar en- 
tered, rose and bowed whenever he went out. And there was 
one melancholy Englishman. 

He wore, indoors and out, a white silk kerchief pinned 
tightly round his throat. Ledgar remembered a ghostly story 
of a night coach journey. A traveler noticed in front of him 
a cadaverous-looking man with his throat bound round in simi- 
lar fashion. Seeing the eyes fixed upon him, the stranger asked 
in sepulchral voice, “If your wife had run away with someone 
else, your son committed suicide, and your fortune been lost 
in speculation, what would you do?” 

“Haven’t the ghost of an idea,” replied the startled traveler. 
“Cut my throat, very likely.” 

“That’s exactly what I did,” said the stranger impressively, 
unfastening the bandage, and showing a neck nearly severed. 

From the cadaverous appearance of this elderly Englishman, 
Ledgar almost suspected him of being the identical stranger. 

“You haven’t been to church today?” he said, as Ledgar took 
a seat beside him. 

“No.” 

He grunted. “I always go when I’m over here; it sets the 
people a good example. Now only three people in this room 
have been to church this evening.” 

“Are you over here on business?” Ledgar asked politely. 

“No, for pleasure.” He sighed deeply. Englishmen do 
take their pleasures sadly. He had exactly the air of an un- 
dertaker’s traveler making arrangements for a continental 


4i2 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

branch. Through the cloud of smoke he seemed to eye the 
occupants of the room with lugubrious satisfaction as possible 
future clients. His glance said as plainly as words, “How 
I should enjoy burying you all — and Fd do it as cheaply as 
anyone.” 

“This place is supposed to be conducted on religious lines,” 
he said to Ledgar, “but they are a godless people.” 

He was insular enough to gravitate towards the society of 
his compatriot. The next morning Ledgar was invited to 
accompany him on a stroll round the city. “Have you a 
scarf?” he asked before they started. “Better have a scarf, 
ril lend you a scarf.” When the offer was declined, he pro- 
duced a whisky flask, and made a motion as if to offer it to 
Ledgar, but, changing his mind, took a nip himself. Then, 
placing some on the palm of his hand, he rubbed it into his 
bald scalp. “Fine preventative of cold in the head,” he said. | 
“If you have any whisky, I should advise you to do the same. 
Now Fm ready. Treacherous climate, treacherous country.” 

His conversation was not enlivening; in the course of a short 
promenade he was able to inform Ledgar that Stuttgart was 
the most depressing capital in Europe; the Hospice they were 4 
staying in the worst conducted in Stuttgart; and the people — 
well, you would not be able to find a more degraded collec- 
tion anywhere. 

He walked with tiny steps and bent knees, like an auto- 
maton or marionette. ' When they had been two or three 
times round the Platz, and up and down the fine avenue of 
the royal park, Ledgar suggested a visit to one of the cafes. 
Ledgar ordered a bock; he, coffee: he could not stand German 
beer. They were sitting at a table near the door when some 
young German officers entered, swords and spurs clanking ; one ’ | 
or two bystanders were brushed off the pavement. One of j 
the officers in passing knocked Ledgar’s hat and cane from 
a chair on which he had placed them. Ledgar rose, furious, 
and was following them into the cafe. The Englishman came 
after him and plucked him by the sleeve. “Sit down, my dear 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 413 

fellow; do sit down and keep quiet. You can’t do anything, 
you know. These fellows would run you through as soon as 
look at you. Spit you, they would; just as if you were a 
fowl. A perfidious people. Pray come and sit down.” He 
remained in a state of agitation until they were in the open 
air again, and away from listening ears. “My dear sir, you 
don’t know these people as I do. They are a race of babies 
with swelled heads, and the pap they’re fed on is Bernhardi 
mixed with memories of the Trench debacle. All they live 
for now is what they call The Day. Have you noticed their 
bitter animosity towards our country?” 

“I can’t say I have,” said Ledgar. “The people I have met 
have been quite amiable. I think the old German ladies espe- 
cially most delightful.” 

“More dangerous even than the men; more dangerous than 
the men,” said his companion. “You know what the women 
of the French Revolution were. Those charming old ladies 
are thinking all the time how well your head would look on 
a pike. No; there’s going to be a big flare up soon; and at 
no very distant date. Only the spark is wanting to blow up 
the whole magazine. They envy us our trade, our colonies, 
our Navy. World dominion — that’s what they’re after. Just 
a touch, and you’ll see all the powers tumbling over one an- 
other into war like spillikins. It’ll be a bloody business when 
it does come; Armageddon with a vengeance. You see.” 

“But the Emperor?” 

“Oh, he’d stop it if he could. He doesn’t want it. A vain 
man; fond of the limelight; but a good man if you can call 
any of this perfidious people good. He wants peace. But he 
won’t be able to help himself. Once it starts, there’ll be no 
stopping it. You see.” 

“I can’t say I’ve noticed any indications of a general con- 
flagration in Europe.” A quaint memory crossed his mind of 
Mrs. Folley on one occasion launching into high politics. She 
had been reading some reference to German atrocities in the 
Franco-German War. “And the little German who lived 


414 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

at the Inn was always so very nice/’ she said with a perplexed 
air. 

Ledgar observed with some interest that what Jelf had 
thought, what Father Hilarius had predicted, was in this 
man’s mind also. Some terrible cataclysm lay in the path of 
this old world’s progress. Mr. Potter had lived a good deal 
on the Continent; he had read some of the modern German 
writers, and professed to know on what fare the young nation 
was being brought up. 

“Look at the signs and portents,” he said. “War — in the 
Balkans already. And that’s the powder-mine of Europe. 
Rumors of war — everywhere. And now listen to this: On 
the anniversary of Sedan last year, at Artern in Saxony, the 
sword and then the sword-arm of Bismarck’s statue fell noisily 
to the ground. During the earthquake last autumn, a colossal 
statue of Germania at Constance was overthrown. At the 
same time the solid masonry of the towers of the Burg Hohen- 
zollern, the ancestral castle of the ruling house, was rent and 
broken . . . Near Lucerne there is a small lake called the 
Lake of Blood, which, according to tradition, turns blood-red 
shortly before a great war. The waters reddened in 1870. 
After an interval of forty-two years, they turned blood-red 
again. During the last solar eclipse (and astrologers hold 
that great wars are heralded by eclipses) Mars was in extreme 
north declination, and in the oriental quarter of the heavens 
over Europe. . . . And look at recent disasters; on a scale 
so colossal that nothing like them has been known in history. 
The Sicilian earthquake; hundreds of thousands perish. The 
Titanic wreck; sixteen hundred drown. A few years ago 
the papers would have screamed themselves hoarse over fifty. 
No; something big is going to happen. It’s the end of an 
Era in human history. Something’s going wrong — gone wrong, 
somewhere; a cog in the machinery worked loose, a wheel 
not running properly. The whole thing’s getting out of gear. 
The world is out of joint. Those hot chestnuts at dinner 
last night have given me the most acute indigestion. Ah,” 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 415 

he shook his head with melancholy emphasis, “we’re living in 
terrible times; terrible times. I shan’t live to see the end of 
them. I’m breaking up too . . . Let’s go in.” 

Ledgar finished his book the evening before he returned to 
London. Mary had come up to town, and was staying with 
Sir Charles Davenport and Estelle, who were now married 
and living in Russell Square. The young baronet and his wife 
were as jolly and happy as sandboys in the novelty of their 
new existence; they entertained and went out a great deal, 
and were never tired of recommending others to follow in their 
footsteps. Indeed, Estelle had quite a bevy of likely lads and 
girls in training already, and was fast developing into an expert 
match-maker. Her greatest achievement was the mating of a 
misogamistic old Admiral with Mrs. Jewell, the brewer’s 
widow; the finishing touch was given by inveigling them into 
a box-room to examine some old china, leaving them on some 
slight pretext, and then sending a servant to turn the key. 
She was full of apologies when she returned at last from inter- 
viewing an imaginary caller; but the Admiral’s crestfallen face 
and the widow’s extravagant affability showed her at once 
that the thing was done. 

Ledgar found himself in social circles of which he had only 
touched the fringe at Beltinge; he was treated with some 
consideration as a rising man. Mary and he went together 
to the first night of his play, which was well received by the 
audience and afterwards by the critics. He signed an agree- 
ment with the same firm of publishers for his new book at an 
advanced royalty. He lived in the meantime at a small hotel 
in Bloomsbury, but he was more frequently at the house in 
Russell Square. The rush preceding marriage seems almost 
a merciful arrangement of Providence, or Nature; there is 
no time for reflection, repentance, or introspection ; one is com- 
pelled to see the thing through by a conjunction of interested 
eggers-on — furniture people, art dealers, house agents, clergy, 
kinsfolk. In a brief flash of vision he saw how utterly impos- 
sible it is in civilized circles of the twentieth century to back 


4 i 6 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

out of an arranged marriage shortly before its date; how utterly 
impossible it would have been to make his dramatic appear- 
ance at Winnie’s wedding. Modern Guelphic days were not 
Norman or Plantagenet. No, no, no, says Society firmly; you 
have made your bargain; you must stick to it; you cannot get 
out. Winnie in the same way was being bound to Holderness 
by each joint examination of a price list; each empty and 
eligible house looked over; each deliberation over chintz and 
velvet pile. Mary and he (but Mary brought the matter 
to its conclusion) selected a flat in Kensington, and furnished 
it. Servants were retained — not Mrs. Folley. Nearly every 
morning they drove out to the shops, sometimes with Estelle, 
who shared her sister’s love for pretty things; the brougham 
returned overflowing with boxes, bags, and parcels, the advance 
guard of large consignments. Mary had chosen opals for her 
engagement ring. They were unlucky? Rubbish; you made 
luck for yourself. They were beautiful. 

And at last, almost before he realized it, the Day drew 
near. Soon after Mary returned to Beltinge he went down 
there. Now the old house overflowed with parcels. Gordon 
came down; then arrived pretty bridesmaids to be very busy 
on all kinds of mysterious operations from which Ledgar was 
jealously excluded and driven away. He fancied once that 
he caught the word trousseau. During those few days Mary 
seemed anyone’s property rather than his own. She bobbed in 
and out of his life like a weather-house figure. “Isn’t this 
pretty. Led!” A flourish of silk — satin — crepe de Chine — be- 
fore his dazzled eyes; presto! She was off. Once it was about 
the honeymoon. They had finished dinner ; she stayed to smoke 
a cigarette with him. Mrs. Beltinge made no objection to 
anything just now; and Gordon’s authority was^ superseded 
(in theory, at least) by that of Ledgar. He had an uncom- 
fortable feeling, however, that Mary very often contrived to 
induce him to suggest what was in her own will and mind; 
and then gracefully, and sometimes with just the necessary 
demur, fell in with the idea. It began to dawn upon him 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 417 

that he would have a clever wife, and one with her own 
will. 

“Of course, that’s as you please, Mary,” said Ledgar. 
“We’ll go wherever you like.” His own idea was Italy. He 
suggested the Italian Lakes and Venice, returning perhaps 
by the Italian Riviera. A friend of Davenport’s had been 
staying at Rapallo. He described it as an enchanting little 
place. 

“Oh, that would be awfully jolly!” said Mary, clapping 
her hands. “I’ve never been to Italy. It must be perfectly 
lovely. Italy’s so old, isn’t it? I’ve only been to Brittany — 
and of course Paris and Switzerland. Are the Italian peas- 
ants like the Breton peasants at all? I did love them so. 
They’re so simple, and so religious, and so genuine and kind. 
I wanted to go to one of the Pardons when I was there; but 
they were all such a long way from Dinan. We must go to 
one some day. Led.” 

“My dear girl,” said Ledgar, a little reluctantly, “you can 
go to Brittany for your honeymoon if you like. It’s your — 
no, of course, I don’t mean that; it’s my honeymoon as well. 
Decide just as you please.” 

“Oh, but you said Italy, and that would be so jolly . . . 
Of course. I’d like to go everywhere. I was reading an article 
about honeymoons the other day. One writer said you should 
joggle them. On a honeymoon — it’s supposed to be a critical 
time, I believe — you mustn’t give yourself time to stop for 
thought. Joggle. Rush over from Paris to St. Petersburg; 
then to Rome via — the Balearic Islands, was it? — across Tur- 
key; over the Sahara by camel; home through the South 
Seas.” 

“I’m afraid we can’t manage all that.” 

“No, no. We’re going to Italy. I wonder what Egypt 
is like? That’s where Charles and Estelle went for theirs. 
Oh, Led, I was going to ask you — ^who was it wrote ‘the 
grandeur that was Greece, and the glory that was Rome,’ 
where something-or-other Sappho loved and sung? Was it 


4 i 8 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

Byron or Shakespeare? Of course you’ll have to make a 
speech.” 

Italy, such an entrancing idea at the start, 'was buried under 
other topics. In some miraculous way they seemed to drift 
back again to Brittany. 

“Look here, Mary,” said Ledgar at last, “I was reading a 
very funny honeymoon story the other day. Two engaged 
couples were very friendly, and were going to be married 
on the same day. They were perplexed about the honeymoon 
question, and one of the girls said to her fiance, ‘I tell you 
what. I’ll arrange where we shall go, and keep it as a sur- 
prise for you. When we get into the railway-carriage you 
won’t know what our destination is to be; I’ll take the tickets 
and do everything.’ The man thought it so splendid an idea 
that he mentioned it to the other couple. ‘Oh, we’ll do the 
same thing,’ they said. On the wedding day they met at Wa- 
terloo; and exchanged greetings. One couple got into the 
forward part of the train, the other into the rear part. At 
Basingstoke the train stopped for several minutes. ‘I’ll go 
and speak to the Whites,’ said Black, in the rear portion, to 
his wife. White left the front portion to speak to Mrs. Black. 
The front part of the train — I’m afraid it all sounds a little 
mixed . . .” 

“No, no; I’m following; go on . . .” 

“The front part began to move. ‘They’re only shunting,’ 
said Black, and jumped into the carriage to finish his con- 
versation with Mrs. White. But the train didn’t stop. It 
went out of the station, carrying the wrong husband with 
the wrong wife, in each case. You see the situation. Neither 
party had the remotest idea where the other had gone. They 
were chasing their partners all over the country for days; once 
or twice getting an agonizing vision of familiar faces at the 
windows of passing trains.” 

“That’s rather funny,” said Mary. “I don’t think it’s ex- 
actly a recommendation, though, for trying the experiment.” 

“No; but I was going to suggest that \\^e might try 


some- 


The Rise of Ledgat Dunstan 419 

thing of the same kind. It won’t be complicated by a second 
couple. I mean, you really are a little uncertain whether 
you’d prefer Italy or Brittany, or some other place . . 

*‘But we said Italy,” said Mary. “I thought it was all 
settled.” 

There was still something dubious in her voice which made 
Ledgar finish his suggestion. “There’s no hurry to decide, 
and you really are a little uncertain — you know you are, 
Mary. Let’s leave it till later. No need to settle until the 
last minute. Then you can take me to the station, and drop 
me down in Italy — or Brittany — or whatever place appeals to 
you at the last moment.” 

“Very well. Only of course it’ll be Italy. We’ve settled 
that.” 

Ledgar or Gordon rattled over in the dog-cart to letch 
new arrivals from town or distant parts of the country and 
bring them from the station to Beltinge. Sir Charles Daven- 
port and Estelle came over, Davenport bringing his dog, with- 
out which he never traveled. It was a cross, according to 
Estelle, between a tea-cozy and a hearth-rug; her husband’s 
day was never fairly started until the dog had brought him 
hat, stick, and gloves after breakfast. Generally the whole 
contents of the room had to be overhauled before a satisfactory 
selection had been made. The little animal showed its breed- 
ing among unfamiliar surroundings by fetching, on the first 
day of its arrival, a pair of felt, fur-topped, and patent-tipped 
boots of Mrs. Beltinge’s, scarlet clocked stockings of Estelle’s, 
two bones, half a dead mole from the garden, a string of three 
sausages half devoured from the kitchen, and a tiny fragment 
of Horrocks’s calf. Horrocks said dismally in reply to Sir 
Charles’s condolences that no doubt the dog took him for a 
bone. He only hoped it would not be inconvenienced by the 
bite. The last animal who bit him, he said, had been seriously 
indisposed for some days afterwards. 

Sir Charles assumed that Horrocks was an acquired taste. 

Uncle Charles came, immaculately Chesterfieldian, with an 


420 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

equally immaculate valet. There were two maiden aunts^ 
known familiarly and disrespectfully as the duck-aunt and the 
cow-aunt, because one quacked in speaking, and the other made 
a gentle, soothing noise like mooing. They called Aunts 
“Ants,” at Beltinge; this led to Mrs. Durant, on being asked 
whether she had seen the “Ants” yet, replying that she had 
seen some at the Vansittart’s — a nest of them under a glass 
case, very pugnacious little animals who milked other insects. 
Aunt Bertha was chiefly remarkable for a badly made set of 
teeth; probably not natural, as they were constantly falling 
out, and being handed back politely on a salver by Horrocks. 
Aunt Judy was great on information; she could tell you ex- 
actly how long it would take you to walk to the moon if you 
took three steps backward to every two and a half you ad- 
vanced; how many threepenny bits would cover the dome of 
St. PauFs; how many heads of Dean and Chapter it would 
require to make a wooden pavement for the close of Canter- 
bury (of course that was not original), and how many copies 
of The Christian piled together would equal the height of 
the Eiffel Tower. Davenport considered her most interesting. 
She rivaled Brighty, too, in the invention of odd games; fish- 
ing for pickles, throwing pats of butter at eggs, and a most 
original game known as “Sheep” in which a roomful of people 
imitated the noises of the farmyard. 

The great day dawned; it was really a most imposing wed- 
ding, far more imposing than Winnie’s would have been. 
The morning-room, in which Ledgar had proposed, contained 
the presents, a magnificent display of silver, silver-gilt, cutlery, 
pictures, books, furniture, duplicates of checks which alone 
made marriage quite a gilt-edged speculation. Mrs. Durant 
sent Indian carvings; the Vicar (and, of course, they could 
never have got married at all without the Vicar) a presenta- 
tion copy of his work on Frogs, with the framed portraits 
of several specimens detached from the text. 

All the countryside, from Ashbridge to Abbot’s Forstal, 
from Came and Came Bay to Exbury, was represented. The 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan '421 

Edens rowed across in state from their little kingdom, Bar- 
ley Island ; the Fitnesses drove from Fitness Abbey ; the 
Dowager Lady Lockbridge from Lockbridge Hall; and Mr. 
Dunstan, Emmeline, Young Ab, and other kinsfolk of Led- 
gar’s from Came Bay and its neighborhood. Higgins brought 
her undertaker . . . And Ledgar, being asked whether he 
would have this woman to be his wife, agreed quite audibly; 
which was exactly what they all expected him to do. A 
dozen carriages drove them back to the house. There was 
what Higgins, describing the affair afterwards to friends, 
called a “cold collection”; the cake was cut; Uncle Charles 
made an elegant speech, to which Ledgar had to reply; Mr. 
Dunstan, in a frock-coat, white waistcoat, and white tie — all 
looking singularly home-made in that assembly — was rather 
noisily teetotal when the healths were drunk. Ab’s large hands, 
in pale lavender, were most useful in handing round the cakes 
and sandwiches. Ledgar half hoped he might be mistaken for 
a manservant. 

Bride and bridesmaids scurried a great deal by themselves 
in upper rooms and corridors, with the result that at last 
Mary appeared, just a little less regal than in her wedding- 
dress, ready for the mysterious journey. Where was the honey- 
moon to be spent? No one knew. 

The brougham carried them away at last, out of a hail of 
confetti, to the station. A first-class compartment had been 
reserved. Whatever Mary had decided upon for the morrow 
they were to spend the night in London. And here at last 
was one of Ledgar’s dreams realized. He had done that as- 
tounding thing, got married; and Mary was in her smart 
tailor-made costume opposite him; and he had bought nearly 
all the papers on the bookstall; and all the porters — even the 
burly station-master himself, who generally seemed under the 
impression that passengers while on his platforms, belonged to 
him just as letters in the letter-boxes belong to the Postmaster- 
General until actually delivered — all the staff down to the 
small paper-boys were the last word in deference. They 


422 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

almost cringed. Truly, a Beltinge wedding was a ceremony 
scarcely less important (if that) than coronations and royal 
funerals. Mary read the papers, looked at the pictures, 
thought the country through which they passed awfully 
pretty; was very charming, and as a matter of fact as if she 
had been married every day of her life for years. A carriage 
had been ordered to meet them at the London terminus. It is 
very pleasant to see other passengers by your train, who have 
to proceed by bus or foot to their destination, eye you envi- 
ously as you accept the salute of a tall footman. They were 
going to stay at the Escurial, which as everyone knows ranks 
among the great hotels of the world, with the Europe at St. 
Petersburg, Shepheard’s at Cairo, and the Vieux Doelen at 
The Hague. A small boy watching them wide-eyed from the 
pavement was just such another as Ledgar had been a little 
over twenty years ago. In an imposing lounge, the walls and 
staircase of pink marble, guests in evening dress sat under 
great palm trees. A small Hungarian orchestra was playing 
gypsy dances. The portly manager of the establishment him- 
self received them with the respect generally extended to Am- 
bassadors or Crowned Heads. Of course, it was only for a 
night; -the charges were enormous. Men in gorgeous liveries 
bowed them to the lift. A corridor with palms, pictures, cases 
of wild birds, statues — everywhere the softest of Turkey car- 
pets — then neat and pretty chambermaids at the door of their 
suite of rooms. The bedroom was in Louis Seize design; 
perhaps royal eyes had marked the flight of time by the gilt 
hands of that clock ; and small, royal fingers checked the swing- 
ing nymph who served as pendulum. Perhaps the chairs had 
been in the boudoir of some marquise in old Versailles; the 
escritoire in the study of some minister or prelate. Genuine? 
Genuine enough, announced Mary, after examination. “Isn’t 
it a sumptuous place. Led?” Winnie would probably have 
said “swell.” He was almost sorry Mary had not said 
“swell.” If she had said it, of course, it would have been 
all right. And that was the advantage of being married to 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 423 

Mary. You were never apprenhensive about her; as, for in- 
stance, he had been apprenhensive a few hours ago about 
the behavior of his father, of Emmeline and Ab. But with 
Winnie he would have been on pins all the time. Supposing 
she had said “swell,” in the lounge, for instance, audibly, and 
people had turned their heads? Or up here, and a chamber- 
maid had sniffed? It might have been all right; it might not; 
you never could tell. Books on etiquette don’t instruct you 
in little things like that. 

A dressing-room in rose for Mary opened into the bedroom 
from one side; a dressing-room in green for himself on the 
other. There was a bathroom, with marble bath, enormous 
sponges, brushes as long as oneself, loofahs, soft and scrubby 
towels. But he had heaps of time before dinner, and decided 
on the luxury of a Turkish bath after the journey. Mary 
thought it would be jolly too. One good thing at least out 
of the East — hot room, and hotter; the lathering table and 
plunge; at the end, sweetmeats and tea for Mary in her de- 
partment of the baths; a shave, coffee, cigarettes, the latest 
novel for him. Not that he was able to read many pages. 
Marriage was most decidedly a success. Deliciously languid, 
he changed at last into evening things, and went up again 
to his dressing-room to put finishing touches to his toilet and 
wait for Mary. Uncle Charles had given him a magnificent 
dressing-case; everything he wanted lay in those gold-stoppered 
bottles and silver boxes, bearing his monogram. A fire had 
been lit and was burning cheerfully. He stood before a pier- 
glass for some minutes. He always looked well in evening 
dress. Mrs. Beltinge herself had said so only a night or 
two before. “Really, Ledgar, you look quite distinguished. 
Doesn’t he, Mary?” 

“Of course. Grandma. Why shouldn’t he? He is distin- 
guished.” 

Well, he had made his jump. He could congratulate him- 
self on his success. The success of the play had caused a 
fresh demand for the book. He had quite a fair reputation 


424 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

now in the writing world as a man who, if he had not actually- 
arrived, would very soon be at his destination. His work — 
book, short stories, play — was bringing him in something like 
four hundred pounds a year. He had a hundred and fifty 
from Aunt Eliza, a hundred from Jelf — if only Maurice could 
have been his best man! — four hundred from Uncle Ab’s es- 
tate. Mary had three hundred a year from her mother’s for- 
tune for pin-money. Roughly, between them they had nearly 
fourteen hundred a year. Why, he was the spoilt child of 
fortune. It was dazzling; he wondered how it had all come 
about. His father now — and young Ab. He flattered himself 
that he must have had uncommon astuteness. He really did 
not work very hard. He was his own master; Perrin, Tid- 
marsh, were working still from ten to half past four — ten to 
half past four, wash your hands, go home again. That seemed 
an age ago. His father was still at work. His, too, a tread- 
mill, Carisbrooke-donkey sort of business. He did not stop 
to analyze the exact manner in which his position had been 
acquired. Here he was; and, in her own dressing-room now, 
was Mary; once Miss Beltinge of Beltinge; whose ancestors 
had come over with Noah or Julius Caesar, and were all 
lying under musty monuments in Beltinge Church, or framed 
on the walls of Beltinge. And when he saw her first, he had 
just emerged, a small, soaked, frightened remnant of human- 
ity, from the storm, with a soaked and frightened donkey as 
companion. But that, at least, showed resolution. If he had 
not rebelled against his father ; if he had not dared the dangers 
of the escape, the sea, the storm — quite another path would 
have confronted him . . . And if he were married now to 
Winnie? A quiet, middle-class wedding; Mrs. Campion in 
her glory; then — well, they wouldn’t have come here. To 
some small, quiet hotel, probably; he would never have brought 
Winnie to the Escurial. Perhaps some old-fashioned inn with 
associations ; a place with gallery from which eyes once watched 
Elizabethan comedy or tragedy; a place with cobbled yard 
where W eller once cleaned boots. 


The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 425 

Mary was just ready. She was gowned superbly, with flash- 
ing jewels which had been Mrs. Beltinge’s and Gordon’s gift. 

“Well?” he said. 

“Well?” she said, and smiled. For a few minutes they sat 
together in cozy chairs before the fire. Time to go down. 

He had traveled far enough from boyhood and city life not 
to commit himself as Kipps did in the Royal Grand Hotel. 
There was no fear of the Escurial defeating him. ... Of 
course he had an ally. . . . But he would never have worn 
purple cloth slippers with a golden marigold at dinner. He 
would never have interrupted conversation with the polyphone, 
even if there had been one. He would never have shot the 
ice across the floor. Still, he felt nervous. The entry was a 
colossal moment. The room was ablaze with light, with 
jewels, with color. The waiters were regal in their mag- 
nificence; with white kid gloves. People were looking round. 
Mary walked like a young queen to her place. It seemed 
a tremendous distance. An orchestra was just tuning. An 
elderly man, very distinguished, with a row of tiny medals 
on his coat, looked hard at them through his eyeglass, and 
spoke to his partner. Asking, no doubt, who they were. Led- 
gar thought that no one in the vast room looked quite so — so 
aristocratic as his wife. 

A good dinner, of course; good wine; good music. Mary 
smoked a cigarette with him over their coffee. 

A girl came to the front of the musicians’ gallery, and sang. 
Mary’s hair brushed his cheek as they bent their heads to- 
gether over the program. “A Heart’s Wreckage,” words by 
Eugene Mason, after Frangois Ceppee. 

Ah, once my heart was like a Roman hall 
Ere yet mad passions, as the Scythians, come. 

Break down white marbles in the atrium. 

Burn the wrought roof, and breach the polished wall. 
They left it desecrate; obscene things crawl 
And hoot aboitt a place where speech is dumb: 


426 The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan 

The vase lies shattered, the prone nymph is dumb: 
And o’er th’ unweeded paths great thorns grow talL 

Within this noisome spot, where dragons are. 

Dark days I knew, ahd nights without a star. 

The mock of Time, a man ashamed, apart. 

Till, with the sun, you rose and comfoYted, 

And, love, I build this lodging for your head 
From shards and pompous wreckage of my heart. 


The girl had a glorious voice. When the last notes, joy- 
ous and yet wistful, died away, Mary bent towards him with 
an odd little smile, and whispered: 

“Well, Led, after all your Scythian passions — ^how do you 
like love?” 

Oh, marriage was a great, a glorious, a magnificent success. 

And the world was amazingly beautiful, extraordinarily 
interesting — wonderful. 

ANOTHER WORK WHICH WILL CONCLUDE 
THE HISTORY OF LEDGAR DUNSTAN IS 
IN PREPARATION. IT WILL BE ENTITLED 
• “THE QUEST OF LEDGAR DUNSTAN.” 


( 1 ) 












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